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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
CAROLINE  CUSHING  DUNIWAY 

'92 


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POEMS 


Printed  by 
W.  C.  Penfold  &  Co.  Ltd.,  88  Pitt  Street,  Sydney,  Australia. 


Obtainable  in  Great  Britain  from  The  British  Australasian 

Book-store,  51  High  Holborn,  lyondon,  W.C.  1.,  and  all  other 

Booksellers;  and  (wholesale  only)  from  The  Australian  Book 

Company,  16  Farrindgon  Avenue,  I/3ndon,  E.C  4. 


JlKJO-i£ytAJ(_         A^W/>i^ 


POEMS 


BY 

RODERIC  QUINN 


AUSTRALIA: 
ANGUS  &    ROBERTSON   LTD. 

89  CASTLEREAGH  STREET,  SYDNEY 
1920 


^OAj/d-CVC^y 


.3   ' 

as- 


TO    MY    BROTHERS 


000 


CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Hidden  Tide  --------  i 

Spring  Song   ---------  3 

The  Frontier-Land        -------  6 

The  Song  of  the  Violin      ------  g 

At  Her  Door _--  10 

Stars  in  the  Sea  --------  12 

A  Song  of  Winds  --------  13 

Sydney  Cove,  1788  --------  16 

Romance  in  the  Market  Place  -----  18 

A  Song  of  Keats  -- --  20 

A  Grey  Day  ---------  22 

The  Fisher    ---- 25 

The  Camp  Within  the  West     -----  27 

Irony       ----- 29 

The  Twenty-fifth  of  April        -        -        -        -        -  31 

At  End  of  a  Holiday  -------  33 

The  Currency  Lass 35 

The  Master-Man  --------  38 

The  Voyagers 40 

Love  Magical         ------        -.42 

At    Dawn       ---------  43 

With  the  Quandongs  -------  45 

The   Artist    ---------  47 

An  Empty  Room  -        -        -        -        --        -        -  48 

A  Wardrobe  ---------  49 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Little  House __         cq 

The  Sea-Seekers  ----__        __        ^j 

The  Lotus-Flower         -------55 

The  Golden  Yesterday  ---_._        gg 

The  Seeker    ------___        gj 

Arnold  Rode  Behind     - -64 

Midnight  and   Moonlight 6^ 

The  Allisons 72 

The   Gardener -        -        75 

The  Black  Hound 77 

The  Greater  Love  -----__        79 

ACUSHLA  --_ g2 

The  Three  Knocks --84 

The  Red  Mist        --------86 

The  Vigil       ---____        --90 

The  House  of  the  Commonwealth     -        -        -        _        93 
The   Swamp  -----___.        99 

Shell   Music  ---____.       103 

Drovers  Twain _       105 

Tidings  -        -        -        -        .        _        _        _        -       108 

The  Surrender       -        -        -        --        -        _        -no 

The  Fiddle  and  the  Crowd  -        -        -        -        -        -       m 

The  Lovers*  Walk         -        -        -        -        -        -        -113 

The  Hidden  Heart        -        -        -        -        -        -        -       117 

On  the  Barrier 119 

The  Dread  Beyond  Death 121 

All  of  a  Piece  ---_____  122 
The  Song  -----____  123 
The  Secret  Pool  -        -        -.-        -        -        -        -       124 

Twilight  and  Peace -        -       125 

The  Counsellors 127 


CONTENTS  ix 

Page 

At  the  Tide's  Will, 129 

Perfection       ---______       130 

The  Voices  of  the  Rain 131 

Noon  on  the  Barrier  Ranges 134 

God's  Answer         --____        __       137 

In   September 142 

Bequeathal  ---_____        i^ 

The  Year's  End    - 145 

By  Momba  Tracks         ---____       149 
The  Turn  of  the  Road        ------       151 

Garden   Street 154 

The  Drover  of  the  Stars  -        -        -        -        -        -       157 

Just  to  Drift         ----____       i^g 

After  Drafting      -        -        -        -        -.-        -        -161 

"They  Shall  Come  Home" -       163 

The  River  and  the  Road      ---___       165 
The  Red-Tressed  Maiden      __---_       168 

Two  Pictures 170 

After  Cattle  -        -        -        -.-        -        -        -       172 

Australia's   Vision -175 

Western   Camps     --------       177 

The  Shadow-Third        -_---'-_       179 

The  Lagoon 180 

By  the  Quay        ------        --181 

The  Scarlet  Cloak      -------       183 

The  Long,  Lone  Road  -------       184 

The  Threshold  Stone 187 

Doing  Nothing      --------       189 

Homeward  Going  --------191 

The  Soul  of  Anzac 192 


THE    HIDDEN    TIDE 

WITHIN  the  world  a  second  world 
That  circles  ceaselessly: 
Stars  in  the  sky  and  sister  stars — 
Turn  in  your  eyes  and  see! 

Tides  of  the  sea  that  rise  and  fall, 

Aheave  from  Pole  to  Pole — 
And  kindred  swayings,  veiled  but  felt, 

That  noise  along  the  soul. 

Yon  moon,  high-throned,  remote  and  pale 
As  though  with  pride  extreme, 

Draws  up  the  sea ;  but  what  white  moon 
Exalts  the  tide  of  Dream? 

The  Fisher-Folk  who  cast  their  nets 

In  Vision's  golden  tide 
Oft  bring  to  light  misshapen  shells, 

And  nothing  worth  beside. 

And  so  their  worn  hands  droop  adown, 
Their  singing  throats  are  dumb ; 

The  Inner  Deep  withholds  its  pearls 
Till  turn  of  tide  be  come. 

But  patience!  wait — the  good  tide  turns, 
The  waters  inward  set: 


THE     HIDDEN     TIDE 

And  lo,  behold — aleap,  alive 
With  glowing  fish  the  net! 

O  Toilers  of  the  Hidden  Seas! 

Ye  have  strange  gain  and  loss, 
Dragging  the  Deeps  of  Soul  for  pearls, 

And  oft-times  netting  dross. 

Fierce  are  the  winds  across  your  realm, 
As  though  some  Demon  veiled 

Had  loosed  the  gates  of  Spirit-land 
To  ravage  ways  unsailed. 

But  still  sweet  hours  befall  at  times, 

Rich-lit  and  full  of  ease; 
The  afterglow  is  like  the  light 

Of  sunset  on  tired  seas. 

And  worse,  perhaps,  may  be  the  lot 

Of  those  whose  fate  is  sleep. 
The  sodden  souls  without  a  tide, 

Dense  as  a  rotten  deep. 

Pain  paves  the  way  for  keener  joy, 

.  And  wondrous  thoughts  uproll 
When  the  large  moon  of  Peace  looks  down 
On  high  tide  in  the  Soul. 


SPRING    SONG 

SING  out  and  be  happy! 
The  Spring  is  at  hand, 
The  grass  green,  and  sappy 
The  trees  o'  the  land. 

Sing!  for  the  breeze  is 

Rustling  and  silky, 
And  toys  with  and  teases 

Long  blossoms  and  milky. 

The  root  in  the  juices 
Unfrosted  drinks  deep; 

The  loving  wave  sluices 
The  weeds  as  they  sleep. 

Sing  out!  for  the  bees  in 
Their  quest  of  wild  honey 

Are  haunting  the  trees  in 
Green  places  and  sunny. 

Distant  blue  reaches 
And  green  hills  invite. 

Green  hills  and  long  beaches 
And  roads  red  and  white. 


SPRING    SONG 

Locked  waters  are  calling 
With  many  gold  voices, 

Where  tides  gently  falling 
Make  soft  liquid  noises. 


Broad-spreading  sun-glamour 
Wraps  blossom  and  stream, 

Gold-tinting  the  armour 
Of  beetles  that  dream. 


Full-sunned  on  lit  ledges 
The  bronze  lizard  dozes, 

And  painting  proud  ridges 
Grow  tiny  pink  roses. 

Sing  out !  and  let  trouble 

Another  pursue: 
It  will  burst  like  a  bubble 

And  vanish  for  you. 

Out,  out  on  old  Sorrow, 
Who  skulks  in  her  sable ! 

Laugh  gaily,  and  borrow 

Gay  laughs  while  you're  able. 


SPRING    SONG 

If  any  care  rankles — 

Away !  and  behold 
Pink  feet  and  white  ankles 

On  beaches  of  gold, 

And  surf  that  runs  after 
To  kiss  clinging  dresses, 

And  white  teeth  and  laughter, 
And  wild  clinging  tresses! 


THE    FRONTIER-LAND 

YOU  of  the  past,  are  you  present  ? 
Draw  nearer !  my  heart  is  sore. 
Was  yours  the  fall  of  the  foot  in  the  hall  ? 
Was  yours  the  face  at  the  door? 

As  I  lifted  my  eyes  I  saw  you; 

You  vanished,  and  all  was  still ; 
And  only  outside  the  white  owl  cried, 

And  the  moon  stared  over  the  hill. 

Wan-blue  were  your  eyes,  O  Shadow, 
And  paler  your  aspect  than  seems 

The  mystical  star,  that  glimmers  afar 
In  a  land  of  mysterious  dreams. 

O  Shadow,  the  past  is  present. 
And  empty  your  coffin  and  tomb ; 

Draw  near,  draw  near,  chill  child  of  fear, 
From  the  frontier-land  of  Gloom! 

Did  you  know  that  I  loved  you.  Shadow? 

Did  you  guess  whence  the  violets  came? 
And  the  delicate  heart  with  its  Cupid  dart. 

All  opal  and  ruby-flame? 


THE     FRONTIER-LAND 

Ah,  once  brown-gold  were  the  lashes 
That  shadowed  your  dreaming  eyes, 

And  your  teeth  were  pearl  'neath  the  coral  curl 
Of  twin  portals  of  Paradise. 

And  warmer  your  cheeks  were  and  softer 

(Alas,  they  are  pale  and  cold!) 
Than  the  rose  of  the  East,  or  the  wine  of  the  feast 

Red-rimming  its  carven  gold. 

It  was  all  so  sad,  O  Shadow, 

And  you  faded  away  so  soon, 
Like  a  note  that  flies,  and  fades,  and  dies 

Ere  it  grows  to  a  golden  tune. 

Gone !  utterly  gone,  O  Shadow ; 

No  whisper,  no  word  let  fall; 
No  light  is  shed,  and  the  moon  is  dead, 

And  a  chill  creeps  up  the  hall. 

I  shall  follow  and  follow  you.  Shadow, 

Till  the  sun,  remote  and  red. 
Burns  like  a  spark,  and  dim  and  dark 

Rise  up  the  hosts  of  the  dead. 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    VIOLIN 

SHE  stood  in  the  curtains  played  over  by  light — 
The  tinted  curtains — a  tired,  sweet  girl, 
With  exquisite  arms  under  laces  of  white 
Like  an  ivory  figure  in  mother-of-pearl. 

I  entered ;  she  saw  me,  but  made  no  move ; 

To  some  I  nodded,  to  some  replied ; 
(A  violin  somewhere  was  singing  of  love) 

She  blushed  and  paled,  and  I  stood  at  her  side. 

I  asked  for  a  dance — she  shook  her  head 
And  laughed  like  a  petted,  petulant  queen; 

She  had  promised  them  all  to  others,  she  said, 
"And  you  are  so  late — and  where  have  you  been  ?" 

They  were  talking  low  in  the  long,  bright  room, 
And  I  answered  her,  moving  the  blind  aside — 

'Out  there  on  the  lawn  in  the  velvet  gloom, 
Wooing  a  woman  to  make  her  my  bride." 

She  suddenly  shook  like  a  startled  dove ; 

Ruffled  and  paled  and  hung  her  head 
(A  violin  somewhere  was  singing  of  love. 

And  bitter-sweet  were  the  things  it  said). 


THE     SONG     OF     THE     VIOLIN  9 

"This  heat  is  stifling!" — she  moved  away. 

"Out  here,"  I  whispered,  "and  hark  to  the  tide !" 
"The  woman — where  is  she?"  I  heard  her  say; 

"Now  show  me  the  woman  you  wooed  for  a  bride." 

"Here  on  the  land — and  there  on  the  sea. 

Her  feet  among  roses,  her  head  in  the  skies; 

And  now  do  you  see  her  ?"    She  whispered  "I  see," 

Her  hand  on  my  shoulder,  a  laugh  in  her  eyes. 

"Do  you  love  her — this  lady  so  mystical,  fine? 
I  dwindle  before  her,  a  plain  little  miss ; 
She  has  stars  in  her  hair — only  roses  in  mine ; 

But  the  Night  has  no  heart,  and  the  Night  cannot  kiss." 

"Not  now,  if  you  please,  sir !" — a  moment  she  strove — 
The  curve  of  my  arm  softly  circled  her  head  .  .  . 
A  violin  somewhere  was  singing  of  love. 

And  sweet  beyond  all  were  the  things  it  said. 


AT    HER    DOOR 

OPEN!   Open!   Open! 
I  am  here  at  your  door  outside; 
The  sea's  blue  tide  flows  speedily, 
And  ebbs  a  thin  red  tide." 

The  woman  rose  from  her  warm  white  bed, 
Threw  back  her  hair  and  smiled; 

The  ears  of  scorn  heard  the  words  of  love, 
And  the  wind  and  the  words  were  wild. 

•'Wake!  Awake!  Awake! 

And  hearken  the  woe  outside; 
The  moon  is  hid  in  cloudiness ; 
Calleth  and  calleth  the  tide." 

The  woman  stood  in  the  silence  still 
As  a  thing  men  carve  from  stone. 

Her  eyes  burned  largely  in  the  dark, 
And  the  smile,  like  a  stain,  stayed  on. 

"Listen!  Listen!  Listen! 

Hear  you  the  rain  to-night? 

A  warm  dark  rain  is  falling  too, 

And  I  grow  ghostly-white." 


AT    HER    DOOR  11 

The  woman  took  three  steps  and  bowed  ; 

The  smile  waned  from  her  lip ; 
She  heard  the  dripping  of  the  rain 

And  a  soft  thick  other  drip. 

'Open!  Open!  Open! 

I  die  in  the  dark  alone. 
My  voice  goes  up  in  weariness 

Against  your  heart  of  stone." 

The  moon  to  a  cloud-cleft  stealing 

Gazed  down  on  the  yearning  tide; 
The  woman  opened  the  streaming  door 

And  stood  in  the  rain  outside. 

Silence!  Stillness!  She  whispers, 

"Ah,  Love,  that  death  should  be !" 
He  sighed,  "Your  lips  are  loveliness !" 

And  she  sobbed,  "Woe  is  me !" 

The  woman  pressed  his  dead  white  face 

With  her  face  as  deadly  white : 
The  moon  drew  in  behind  a  cloud, 

And  the  tide  moaned  through  the  night. 


STARS    IN    THE    SEA 

I  TOOK  a  boat  on  a  starry  night 
And  went  for  a  row  on  the  water, 
And  she  danced  like  a  child  on  a  wake  of  light 
And  bowed  where  the  ripples  caught  her. 

I  vowed,  as  I  rowed  on  the  velvet  blue 
Through  the  night  and  the  starry  splendour. 

To  woo  and  sue  a  maiden  I  knew 
Till  she  bent  to  my  pleadings  tender. 

My  painted  boat  she  was  light  and  glad 
And  gladder  my  heart  with  wishing, 

And  I  came  in  time  to  a  little  lad 
Who  stood  on  the  rocks  a-fishing. 

I  said  **Ahoy!"  and  he  said  "Ahoy!" 
And  I  asked  how  the  fish  were  biting; 
"And  what  are  you  trying  to  catch,  my  boy, 
Bream,  silver  and  red — or  whiting?" 

"Neither,"  he  answered,  "the  seaweed  mars 
My  line,  and  the  sharp  shells  sunder: 
I  am  trying  my  luck  with  those  great  big  stars 
Down  there  in  the  round  skies  under." 

"Good-bye!"  from  him,  and  "Good-bye!"  from  me, 
And  never  a  laugh  came  after; 
So  many  go  fishing  for  stars  in  the  sea 
That  it's  hardly  a  subject  for  laughter. 


A    SONG    OF    WINDS 

WOE  to  the  weak  when  the  sky  is  shrouded, 
And  the  wind  of  the  salt-way  sobs  as  it  dies ! 
Woe  to  the  weak!  for  a  great  dejection 

Droops  their  spirits  and  drowns  their  eyes.  ' 

Woe  to  the  weak  who  tire  of  fetters, 
Of  grim  Hfe-fetters  that  gall  and  bind! 

For  the  Sea  tells  stories  of  death  made  lovely, 
And  a  siren  sings  in  the  nor'-east  wind. 

It  wanders  the  coast  like  a  tombless  spectre, 
And  drips  dank  dew  on  the  drooping  leaf; 

And  the  soul  grows  pensive  with  dim  suggestions 
Of  grey  old  troubles  and  ancient  grief. 

'Tis  grave  and  low,  and  with  woeful  plaining 
Sighs  death-notes  under  a  sky  of  grey; 

And  who  hath  an  ear  may  hear  the  voices 
Of  pale  men  dead  on  its  streaked  sea-way. 

In  fading  twilights  o*er  sullen  seascapes, 
A  lost,  wan  wind  'neath  a  dead  grey  sky, 

It  swoons  to  land  like  a  weary  swimmer. 
Sobs  and  falters  and  turns  to  die. 


14  A    SONG    OF    WINDS 

Seeking  a  tomb  in  dark  coast  caverns 

Where  wet  rust  reddens  the  fretted  stone, 

The  wandering  sea-thing  sinks  to  silence, 
Sinks  and  dies  with  a  last  low  moan  .  .  . 


A  last  low  moan,  and  deadly  stillness  .  .  . 

Then  the  sudden  crash  of  a  league-long  sea, 
And  fresh  from  his  den  in  the  white  ice  region 

The  Wolf  of  the  South  is  speeding  free; 

Cleaving  the  air  with  his  chill  grey  shoulders, 
Trampling  the  sea  to  foam  beneath. 

The  Wolf  of  the  South  goes  howling  nor'ard, 
A  mastless  hull  in  his  long  white  teeth. 

Black  swans  on  high,  a  far  faint  phalanx, 
Wing  their  way  to  a  northern  clime, 

Sending  feathers  of  sad  sound  downward, 
Mournful  notes  of  an  evil  time — 

An  evil  time,  for  the  black  Night  chases 
And  darkness  swallows  the  trailing  flock ; 

An  evil  season  of  wild  white  weather, 
And  foam  and  tumult  on  reef  and  rock; 


A    SONG    OF    WINDS  15 

Of  yellow  floods  on  the  Northern  rivers, 

And  fierce  waves  swaying  from  crest  to  trough, 

Of  creaking  schooners  wearing  seaward, 
And  signals  crying — Stand  off!  Stand  off! 

Of  frothy  flakes  on  the  wild  waste  flying, 

And  anxious  faces,  and  fateful  news; 
Of  close-reefed  topsails,  and  battened  hatches. 

And  straining  engines  and  racing  screws; 

Of  pumice-stone  and  brown  weeds  riven, 

Cast  up  and  flung  on  the  hissing  sand; 
Of  squadroned  waves  and  their  mighty  charging, 

And  the  stern  repulse  of  the  frowning  land; 

Of  whipped  white  faces  faring  stormward 
With  smothered  words  and  wrecked  replies, 

Of  trees  blown  down  on  the  windy  ridges. 
And  stormy  shoutings,  and  tempest  cries; 

Of  eyes  that  dance  to  the  wild  wind*s  music. 

Of  strange  sweet  thrills  through  the  calm-sick  form, 

Of  Storm  throned  king  on  the  mad  white  ocean. 
Of  Storm  the  Monarch — all  hail  to  Storm ! 


SYDNEY    COVE,    1788 

SHE  sat  on  the  rocks,  her  fireless  eyes 
Teased  and  tired  with  the  thoughts  of  yore; 
And  paining  her  sense  were  alien  skies, 
An  aHen  sea  and  an  alien  shore. 


In  gold-green  dusks  she  glimpsed  new  flowers 
And  the  glittering  wings  of  gleaming  birds — 

But  haunting  her  still  were  English  bowers 
And  the  clinging  sweetness  of  old  love-words. 

A  soft  breeze  murmured  of  unknown  shores 

And  laughed  as  it  touched  her  with  fingers  light, 

But  she  mourned  the  more  for  the  wind  that  roars 
Down  sullen  coasts  on  a  northern  night. 

Like  topaz  gems  on  a  sable  dome 
The  stranger  stars  stole  shyly  forth ; 

She  saw  no  stars  like  the  stars  of  home 

That  burned,  white-fired,  in  the  frosty  north. 

A  restless  sea  was  at  her  feet, 

A  restless  sea  of  darkest  blue; 
The  lights  burned  dimly  on  The  Fleet, 

And  these  were  all  the  ships  it  knew. 


SYDNEY     COVE,     1788  17 

She  watched  the  dark  tides  rise  and  fall, 

The  lion-tides  that,  night  and  noon, 
Range  round  the  world,  and  moan  and  call 

In  sad  sea-voices  to  the  moon. 

Thus  while  she  watched  they  ebbed  and  flowed; 

Till  last  with  sudden  splendour  Day 
Lit  all  the  scene  with  gold,  and  showed 

An  arrow  black  on  a  garb  of  grey. 


ROMANCE    IN    THE    MARKET    PLACE 

YOU  stood  beside  the  flowers, 
Yourself  a  flower; 
And  on  your  face 
The  twilight  stayed  another  hour, 
It  shone  so  pale; 
And  all  around  men  talked  as  in  a  market-place. 

I  heard  them  talk,  and  felt 

No  interest  stir 

In  what  they  said. 

Lilies  were  nigh  you,  and  around  you  were 

The  lights  of  love. 

And  all  about  the  world  moved  on  with  nervous  tread. 

I  heard  it  not ;  for  down 

And  round  about 

My  soul  you  drew 

The  veils  that  shut  the  loud  earth  out. 

And  I  and  you 

Were  there  alone — no  one  beside  but  I  and  you ! 

What  words  were  those  we  said  ? 
Old  ones,  perchance. 
Pale  with  the  pain 

Of  all  who've  kissed,  and  talked  romance, 
And  said  farewell, 

And  mixed  their  tears  and  kissed,  and  sighed — and  sighed 
in  vain. 


ROMANCE     IN     THE     MARKET     PLACE  19 

We  stood  a  sainted  while, 

And  then  your  hand 

Sought  to  be  free, 

And  you  were  gone ;  and  all  the  land 

Was  under  gloom. 

And  lamps  were  lit  for  other  men,  but  none  for  me. 

I  stood  and  watched  you  go. 

And  suddenly 

The  loud  world  grew 

Like  some  great-voiced,  insetting  sea ; 

And  men  went  by. 

Talking  of  trade  and  war  and  all  but  love  and  you. 


A    SONG    OF    KEATS 

*'  I  *IS  a  tarnished  book  and  old, 
■■•       Edges  frayed  and  covers  green! 
But,  between  the  covers,  gold — 
Gold  and  jewels  in  between. 

And  this  written  (see,  O  see! 
How  old  Time  has  made  it  dim) 
'^For  one  song  Keats  gave  to  me 
I  kneel  down  and  worship  him." 

He  who  wrote  these  lines  is  dust ; 

All  of  him  is  passed  away; 
Some  hand  closed  his  eyes,  I  trust, 

Drew  the  blind  to  darken  day. 

Did  lips  kiss  him  at  the  end, 
Love-lips  tremulous  yet  brave? 

Had  he  mistress,  child,  or  friend 
To  sow  green  grass  upon  his  grave? 

Nay,  we  know  not — it  is  long 

Since  he  tired  of  Life's  deceits, 
Closed  his  ears  to  sigh  and  song, 

Parted  with  this  hook,  JOHN  KEATS. 

Year  by  year  the  Poet  thrives ; 
Summer  smiles  and  winter  weeps; 


A     SONG     OF     KEATS  21 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci  lives, 
But  a  heart  that  loved  her  sleeps. 

Who  would  .woeful  go  to  miss 

Roses  red  in  thorns  arrayed, 
When  he  might  with  surer  bliss 

Love  a  milkwhite  Devon  maid? 

Beauty  kindles  man's  desire, 

Beauty  dwindles,  growing  faint; 
But  the  girls  who  never  tire 

Are  the  girls  that  poets  paint. 

When  the  moon  has  taken  wings 

And  the  twilight  hour  is  come. 
Grey  the  woods,  and  no  bird  sings : 

Grey  the  world  beyond,  and  dumb: 

Neither  light  is  there  nor  breeze. 

Rose  to  redden,  thorn  to  pain; 
Till,  look!  look!     Among  the  trees 

A  sudden  bird!  a  scarlet  stain! 

So  he  tired  of  Fate's  defeats, 

Life's  dead  trees  and  woodlands  grim. 

Till  sudden-sweet  a  song  of  Keats 
One  magic  moment  gave  to  him. 


A    GREY    DAY 

THE  long  still  day  is  ending 
In  hollow  and  on  height, 
The  lighthouse  seaward  sending 
White  rays  of  steady  light; 

A  little  cloud  is  leading 

A  great  cloud  west  by  north; 

Woe  waits  on  ships  unheeding 
That  blindly  venture  forth. 

All  day  the  sea,  dull-heaving. 
Moaned  low  like  one  who  ails, 

While  spectre  hands  were  weaving 
A  veil  o'er  distant  sails. 

All  day,  with  drooping  feather 
And  wings  devoid  of  gleam. 

The  sea-birds  grouped  together 
Forebore  to  wheel  and  scream. 

Salt-arms  and  river-reaches 
Were  glazed  and  leaden-hued, 

And  haunting  sodden  beaches 
Went  grey-haired  Solitude. 


A    GREY    DAY  23 

The  dead  leaves  in  the  forest 

Sank  earthward  all  aswoon ; 
The  green  marsh-frogs  that  chorused 

Had  ta'en  a  sadder  tune. 


Lost  loves,  and  sins  long  hidden, 
Through  some  unguarded  gate 

Entered  the  soul  unbidden, 
And  made  men  desolate. 

And  fears  beset  the  fearless, 
And  laughs  were  stayed  to  sigh. 

And  eyes  long  dry  and  tearless 
Grew  moist — and  none  knew  why. 

Gleamed  red  the  covered  ember 

Beneath  its  ashen  grey. 
And  some  said,  "I  remember," 

And  some,  "  'Twas  such  a  day !" 

And  all  were  lonely-hearted. 
Sight  inward-set  and  blurred; 

At  touch  or  tone  they  started 
And  groped  for  fitting  word. 


24  A     GREY     DAY 

Down-cast  in  weeds  went  Nature, 
Stilling  man's  mirth  and  song; 

And  mourning  in  each  creature 
A  grave  and  ancient  wrong  .  .  . 

Light  fades  on  hill  and  hollow ; 

Night  falls,  and  close  behind 
Storm-rage  and  Sea-wrath  follow 

With  wild  cries  on  the  wind. 


THE     FISHER 

ALL  night  a  noise  of  leaping  fish 
Went  round  the  bay, 
And  up  and  down  the  shallow  sands 
Sang  waters  at  their  play. 

The  mangroves  drooped  on  salty  creeks, 

And  through  the  dark. 
Making  a  pale  patch  in  the  deep. 

Gleamed,  as  it  swam,  a  shark. 

In  streaks  and  twists  of  sudden  fire 

Among  the  reeds 
The  bream  went  by,  and  where  they  passed 

The  bubbles  shone  like  beads. 

All  night  the  full  deep  drinking-song 

Of  Nature  stirred. 
And  nought  beside,  save  leaping  fish 

And  some  forlorn  night-bird. 

No  lost  wind  wandered  down  the  hills 

To  tell  of  wide 
Wild  waterways;  on  velvet  moved 

The  silky,  sucking  tide. 


THE     FISHER 

Deep  down  there  sloped  in  shadowy  mass 

A  giant  hill; 
And  midway,  mirrored  in  the  tide, 

The  stars  burned  large  and  still. 

The  fisher,  dreaming  on  the  rocks, 

Heard  Nature  say 
Strange,  secret  things  that  none  may  hear 

Upon  the  beaten  way; 

And  whisperings  and  wonder  stirred, 

And  hopes  and  fears, 
And  sadness  touched  his  heart,  and  filled 

His  eyes  with  star-stained  tears : 

And  so,  thrilled  through  with  joy  and  love 

And  sweet  distress. 
He  stood  entranced,  enchained  by  her 

Full-breasted  loveliness. 


THE    CAMP    WITHIN     THE    WEST 

ODID  you  see  a  troop  go  by 
Way-weary  and  oppressed, 
Dead  kisses  on  the  drooping  lip 
And  a  dead  heart  in  the  breast  ? 

Yea,  I  have  seen  them  one  by  one 
Way-weary  and  oppressed; 
And  when  I  asked  them,  "Whither  speed?" 
They  answered,  "To  the  West!'' 

And  were  they  pale  as  pale  could  be, 
Death-pale,  with  haunted  eyes? 
And  did  you  see  the  hot  white  dust 
Range  round  their  feet  and  rise? 

O,  they  were  pale  as  pale  could  he, 
And  pale  as  an  embered  leaf; 
The  hot  white  dust  had  risen,  but 
They  laid  it  with  their  grief. 

Did  no  one  say  "The  way  is  long," 
And  crave  a  little  rest? 
O  no;  they  said,  "The  night  is  nigh, 
Our  camp  is  in  the  West!" 


28  THE     CAMP     WITHIN     THE     WEST 

And  did  pain  pierce  their  feet,  as  though 
The  way  with  thorns  were  set, 
And  were  they  visited  by  strange 
Dark  angels  of  regret? 

O  yea;  and  some  were  mute  as  death. 
Though,  shot  by  many  a  dart, 
With  them  the  salt  of  inward  tears 
Went  stinging  through  the  heart. 

And  how  are  these  wayfarers  called, 
And  whither  do  they  wend? 
The  Weary-Hearted — and  their  road 
At  sunset  hath  an  end. 

Shed  tears  for  them  .  .  .  Nay,  nay,  no  tears! 
They  yearn  for  endless  rest; 
Perhaps  large  stars  will  hum  above 
Their  camp  within  the  West. 


IRONY 

ALL  night  a  great  wind  blew  across  the  land, 
Come  fresh  from  wild  and  salty  seas, 
With  many  voices  loud  and  low 
Appealing  to  the  sympathies 
Of  those  with  whom  long,  long  ago 
It  had  been  friends,  but  who 
Had  lost  the  way  to  know  and  understand 
Its  weird  and  tearless  woe. 

A  sleeper,  drawn  from  ancient  fancies,  stirred, 

And  strangely  breathed  in  deep  unrest 

As  though  his  heart  were  choked  with  grief ; 

The  moon  down-stealing  in  the  west 

Threw  every  move  of  limb  and  leaf 

Upon  his  blind.     Now  this 

Was  he  the  wind  sought  wildly,  had  he  heard — 

Alas,  the  friend  was  deaf ! 

All  time  a  great  Thought  wandered  round  the  world 

Naked  and  breathing  loveliness. 

Seeking  in  alien  souls  a  home 

And  thwarted,  yet  a-seek  no  less 

At  every  door,  till  forced  to  roam 

A  wonder  unexpressed : 

A  sense  of  strangeness,  as  of  wings  unfurled. 

Hovered  at  times  o'er  some. 


30  IRONY 

He  heard  the  knocking  at  the  inner  door ; 
He  saw  her  face  a  light  intense, 
And  stood  amazed,  irresolute. 
"Now,  thou  who  hast  the  poet-sense 
In  song  serene  and  absolute 
Proclaim  my  hidden  worth !" 

He  sobbed ;  she  drooped  her  wings  .  .  .  Woe  evermore ! 
The  chosen  mind  was  mute. 


THE  TWENTY-FIFTH  OF  APRIL 

THIS  day  is  Anzac  Day! 
Made  sacred  by  the  memory 
Of  those  who  fought  and  died,  and  fought  and  live, 
And  gave  the  best  that  men  may  give 
For  love  of  Land.    It  dawns  once  more. 
And,  though  on  alien  sea  and  shore 
The  guns  are  silent  all. 
Yet  we  with  pride  recall 
The  deeds  which  gave  it  immortality. 

Great  deeds  are  deathless  things! 

The  doer  dies,  but  not  the  deed. 

And,  when  upon  that  fateful  April  day 

Our  Anzacs,  throwing  all  but  love  away. 

Gave  life  and  limb  for  Honour's  sake, 

With  Freedom  tremblingly  at  stake, 

They  lit  a  beacon-light 

Imperishable,  bright. 

That  evermore  the  Nation's  soul  shall  heed. 

Not  Peace,  not  Peace  alone 

Can  make  a  nation  great  and  good 

And  bring  it  that  full  stature,  strength,  and  grace 

That  fit  it  for  an  age-enduring  place 

In  men's  regard.    Through  storm  and  strife 

It  runs  to  sweet  and  noble  life ; 


33  THE     TWENTY-FIFTH     OF     APRIL 

For  through  its  veins  there  runs 

The  valour  of  great  sons 

Who  died  to  give  it  stately  nationhood. 

This  day  is  Anzac  Day! 

Made  sacred  by  the  thrilling  thought 

Of  those  who  proved  their  souls,  it  reappears ; 

And  thus  'twill  dawn,  and  dawn  through  future  years 

Till  Time  our  petty  deeds  efface. 

And  others,  dwelling  in  our  place, 

Tell  o'er,  with  tongue  and  pen, 

The  glorious  tale  again 

Of  how  on  beach  and  crag  the  Anzacs  fought. 


AT    END    OF    A    HOLIDAY 

**¥    EAVES  and  brambles  from  hill  and  hollow 

1—'     Come  and  gather!"  the  children  cried; 
"The  sun  goes  down,  and  the  night  will  follow, 
A  moonless  night  on  the  dark  hillside." 

All  ways  they  wandered — ^the  dry  twigs  snapping, 
With  laugh  and  prattle  and  song  between ; 

Down  on  the  rocks  the  waves  were  lapping, 
The  long  swell  swaying  the  seaweed  green. 

And  she  stood  by  in  her  white  sun-bonnet, 
All  lace  and  snow  on  her  tressy  hair. 

With  a  gold  king-beetle  dreaming  on  it 
A  lotus  dream  in  the  lustrous  air. 

Was  it  love,  or  a  dove  in  the  tall  tree  cooing? 

Was  it  love,  or  a  dove  that  loitered  nigh? 
The  eventide  is  the  hour  for  wooing — 

But  I  was  silent,  and  she  was  shy. 

Then  suddenly  rose  a  far  faint  humming, 
A  growing  noise  in  the  evening  hush. 

And  the  prattle  of  children  homeward  coming. 
Laden  with  spoil  of  the  gold-brown  bush. 

"Leaves  and  brambles  from  hill  and  hollow ! 
The  way  was  tangled,  and  tangles  tire. 


34  AT     END     OF    A     HOLIDAY 

The  sun  goes  down  and  the  night  will  follow, — 
Now  down  on  your  knees  and  make  us  a  fire!" 

The  leaves  were  wet  (how  a  storm  may  hinder!) 
The  brambles  damp  with  a  shower  at  noon; 

She  bent  to  help  .  .  .  and  my  heart  of  tinder, 
Ah,  why  did  it  burst  to  flame  so  soon? 

*'Dry  leaves,  dry  leaves  from  the  twilight  forest, 
Or  bark  that  is  sheltered,  or  hidden  ferns : 
Dry  leaves,  dry  leaves !"  the  children  chorused, 
'The  drier  the  leaf  the  redder  it  burns !" 

The  fire  leapt  up  with  a  sudden  glancing. 
The  first  flame  flushing  her  hands  of  snow ; 

And  round  about  went  the  children  dancing, 
Their  faces  lit  by  the  rosy  glow. 

That  fire  has  gone  beyond  all  returning. 

For  wild  winds  scatter  and  chill  rains  drench  : 

All  dust  the  leaves;  but  a  fire  is  burning 
That  wind  or  water  shall  never  quench. 

Ah,  leaves  and  brambles  from  hill  and  hollow ! 

And  two  together,  and  violet  eyes  .  .  . 
The  sun  goes  down,  and  love  must  follow, 

A  quenchless  fire,  and  a  flame  that  dies. 


THE    CURRENCY    LASS 

THEY  marshalled  her  lovers  four  and  four, 
A  drum  at  their  heads,  in  the  days  of  old: 
O,  none  could  have  guessed  their  hearts  were  sore ; 
They  marched  with  such  gayness  in  scarlet  and  gold. 

They  came  to  the  dance  place  on  the  hill 

Where  Death  was  the  piper  (he  pipes  full  well)  ; 

They  grounded  their  arms  and  stood  stock-still ; 
And  just  why  he  sorrowed  no  one  would  tell. 

O,  some  had  been  wed  in  distant  lands, 

And  sweethearts  had  others — but  let  that  pass; 

She  held  them  at  ease  in  snow-white  hands. 
For  Queen  over  all  was  the  Currency  Lass. 

They  ushered  her  forth  in  all  her  charms — 
Her  eyes  were  alight  and  as  gold  her  hair; 

She  looked  on  the  men  and  oped  her  arms — 
What  wonder  if  then  they  had  wished  them  there  ? 

She  hearkened  the  Preacher,  thin  and  pale; 

His  voice  was  as  frost,  yet  his  words  were  wise; 
But  sin  on  the  soul  is  like  wrought  mail, 

And  only  a  scorn  of  him  fired  her  eyes. 


36  THE    CURRENCY    LASS 

"O  sorrow  and  pray,  the  hour  draws  nigh, 

The  Lord  in  His  justice  shall  question  thee!" 

The  Preacher  made  prayer  'twixt  sob  and  sigh. 

And  down  dropped  his  soul  on  bended  knee. 

"He  fashioned  thee  fair'* — a  sideways  look — 
Red-lipped  and  right  royal  to  look  upon, 
A  joy  of  the  Earth" — his  thin  hands  shook. 
And  passionate  lights  in  his  deep  eyes  shone. 

In  scarlet  and  gold  her  lovers  stood, 

A  host  under  famine  with  heads  out-thrust; 

Keen-flamed  in  the  sun  ran  reddest  blood. 
And  lips  that  were  thirsty  grew  dry  as  dust. 

They  loved  her  for  years — their  tangled  souls 
Like  silvery  fish  in  her  beauty-mesh 

All  breathless  reposed  ...  A  dull  drum  rolls. 
And  Death  is  at  hand  for  the  Flower  of  Flesh. 

She  lifted  her  head  for  one  love-word 
(Afar  was  a  clamour  of  new-come  ships)  ; 

Her  hair  in  a  cloud  the  low  wind  stirred, 
And  silent  they  marvelled  at  her  red  lips. 

"A  lover  was  I  from  youth,"  she  said ; 

"And  Love  is  my  lord  till  I  fill  the  grave" — 


THE     CURRENCY     LASS  37 

Then  coyly  she  drooped  her  gold-haired  head — 
"Now,  last  of  my  lovers,  a  kiss  I  crave!" 

The  Preacher  was  whirled  in  passion's  rout, 

And  dark  was  the  stain  on  his  soul's  white  snow ; 

Her  lips  v/ere  as  life — his  soul  leapt  out, 
And  sure  there  was  laughter  in  Hell  below. 

'A  singer  was  I  these  years,"  she  said, 

"And  so  I  must  sing  till  my  soul  doth  pass." 

Then  forth  from  her  sin-sweet  lips  there  sped 
The  long-dead  song  of  the  Currency  Lass. 

The  hands  of  the  spoiler  touch  her  throat; 

The  noon  grows  near  and  the  last  sands  run: 
(Still  over  the  scene  her  wild  words  float) 

The  noose  is  ready,  the  song  is  done. 

'A  dancer  I  was  from  birth,"  she  said; 

"A  baby,  I  danced  on  my  mother's  knee; 
Now  whistle  a  jig,  with  swaying  head. 

And,  lovers  of  mine,  I  will  dance  for  ye !" 

Stood  each  with  a  droop,  a  cheated  man. 

While  Sorrow  went  weaving  an  ice-cold  spell  .  .  . 

Good-bye  to  the  world!    The  dance  began 
With  Death  for  the  piper — he  piped  full  well ! 


THE    MASTER-MAN 

O  CAPTAIN  of  the  Great  Event, 
Which  yet  shall  dew  with  crimson  dew 
The  green  coasts  of  our  continent, 
I  know  not  where  to  look  for  you ! 

I  know  when  doom  shall  mass  about 

Our  shores,  and  strike  their  music  dumb, 

A  something  in  your  blood  shall  shout : 
"The  hour  is  mine !    Behold,  I  come !" 

For,  if  one  truth  since  time  began 
O'ertowers  all  other  truths,  it  is: 

There  ever  comes  the  Master-Man 
To  make  the  epic  moment  his. 

In  reeling  ranks  and  riven  steel, 

On  red-drenched  fields  and  seas  of  blood. 
The  bruised  and  broken  foe  shall  feel 

A  valour  not  to  be  withstood; 

The  crisis  shall  not  lack  its  lord. 

The  noon  its  sun,  the  night  its  star; 

Beneath  your  high,  directing  sword 
The  triumph-tide  shall  surge  afar. 


THE     MASTER-MAN  39 

Till  God  make  plain  your  path,  and  fill 

Your  soul  with  martial  ecstasy, 
Perchance  you  toil  in  mart  or  mill, 

Unconscious  of  your  destiny. 

Perchance  you  wait  the  breathing  hour 
Unborn — undrawn  from  distant  spheres — 

For,  though  the  clouds  of  menace  lower, 
They  may  not  break  for  years  and  years. 

Yet,  be  it  soon  or  be  it  late, 

Or  be  it  when  this  voice  is  mute, 
O  guardian  of  our  golden  State, 

The  foe  shall  find  you  resolute. 

O  Captain  of  the  Great  Event, 

Which  yet  shall  dew  with  crimson  dew 
The  green  coasts  of  our  continent, 

A  victor's  laurels  wait  for  vou. 


THE    VOYAGERS 

HOW  was  it  with  the  Genoese, 
What  feeling  filled  his  heaving  breast, 
When  far  across  the  morning  seas 
He  saw  the  island  of  his  quest? 

Perchance  beyond  the  forest  crown 
And  shining  sands  of  that  new  clime 

He  saw  a  light  of  long  renown 

That  blazed  across  the  Seas  of  Time. 

Or  maybe,  in  that  hour  grown  wise. 
He  would  have  bartered  there  and  then 

His  life  for  some  sweet  life  that  lies 
In  utter  peace  unnamed  of  men. 

For  what  is  Fame,  however  brave, 
Beside  the  charms  of  endless  peace — 

The  cool,  sweet  quiet  of  the  grave. 
To  be,  and  having  been,  to  cease  ? 

We  quest  not  like  the  Genoese; 

But,  after  sailing  under  skies 
That  bend  and  brood  o'er  lonely  seas, 

We  light  at  last  on  some  surprise. 


THE    VOYAGERS  41 

Our  eyes  grow  large,  we  stand  amazed, 

The  past  is  past,  our  youth  is  gone. 
The  fronting  hope  that  boldly  blazed 

Before  our  eyes  grows  pale  and  wan. 

For  every  man  must  come  to  this. 

With  aching  heart  and  eyes  unsealed 
That  he  shall  know  the  thing  he  is, 

And  wonder  at  himself  revealed. 


LOVE    MAGICAL 

I  F  you  had  been  where  I  have  been 
■1      (Grey,  grey  the  skies  above), 
And  you  had  seen  what  I  have  seen, 
You  would  not  laugh  at  love. 

Seek,  seek  till  you  find  a  rose 

Red  all  through  to  its  petal-tips, 
And  you  shall  know  the  curve  of  her  mouth. 

The  scent  of  her  breath  and  the  red  of  her  lips. 

If  you  had  heard  what  I  have  heard 

(Dull,  dull  the  beat  of  the  sea). 
Your  heart  would  leap  like  a  singing  bird 

Troubled  and  thrilled  by  ecstasy. 

Stars  sing  in  the  dark  o'  the  night. 

Birds  sing  in  the  gold  o'  the  noon ; 
Melody  reigned  in  her  speech  a  queen. 

The  song  of  the  stars  and  the  birds'  tune. 

The  rose  is  dead  that  was  her  mouth 

(Pale,  pale  on  the  earth  it  lies). 
And  East  and  West  and  North  and  South 

The  world  is  full  of  weeping  eyes. 

A  noon  is  dark,  a  star  is  gone, 

A  rose  is  dead,  a  bird  is  mute ; 
And  love  that  made  sounds  magical 

Is  silent  like  a  broken  lute. 


AT    DAWN 

'  I  'HE  night-long  clamour  of  winds  grew  still; 
•*•      The  forest  rested,  its  foes  withdrawn; 
On  sounding  ocean  and  silent  hill 

There  crept  a  sense  of  the  coming  dawn. 

A  bird  awoke  on  a  leaning  limb 

And  fluttered  its  plumes  a  moment's  space; 
Dark  purple  lay  on  the  sea's  far  rim : 

The  sky  grew  pale  as  a  dying  face. 

Then  all  the  trees  and  the  rocks  and  heights 
With  wondering  faces  watched  the  East : 

It  seemed  an  altar  hung  with  lights 
And  waiting  for  a  vestured  priest. 

And  in  that  intimate  first-  hour 

When  land  and  sea  rejoiced  as  one, 

And  Nature,  like  an  opening  flower, 
Gave  incense,  came  the  burning  sun. 

Yet,  while  the  hour  of  gold  went  by, 

I  saw  through  all  its  pageantry 
The  vast  indifference  of  the  sky. 

The  heartless  beauty  of  the  sea. 


44  AT     DAWN 


For  wet  and  wan,  and  cold  and  sped 
Beyond  the  breakers'  reach  of  pearl, 

There  lay  a  strong  man  drowned  and  dead. 
And  in  his  arms  a  drowned  white  girl. 


WITH    THE    QUANDONGS 

IF  you  happen  to  visit  the  Western  Plains 
When  the  summer  is  young  and  green, 
You  can  see  the  green  of  the  quandong  leaves 
With  the  quandong  fruit  between. 

The  fruit  is  the  size  of  a  plum,  perhaps, 

And  red  as  your  own  blood's  hue ; 
And  it  falls  to  the  ground  at  the  touch  of  the  wind 

Like  a  drop  of  crimson  dew. 

The  wide  plains  lie  with  half-shut  eyes 

At  peace  in  a  golden  swoon, 
And  the  lizards  drink  their  full  of  rest 

Abask  in  the  drowsy  noon. 

There  is  only  the  whir  of  a  wing,  perchance. 

To  startle  the  sleeping  lands ; 
But  the  quandong  trees,  all  green  and  red. 

Are  a-twinkle  with  little  hands. 

Oh,  many  a  tress  has  turned  to  grey. 

And  many  a  song  grown  mute 
Since  Rita  and  Meg  and  Trixie  and  I 

Went  gathering  quandong  fruit. 


46  WITH     THE    QUANDONGS 

And  there  we  were  on  the  plains  alone 
In  the  hush  of  a  drowsy  air — 

Rita  and  Meg  with  roguish  eyes 
And  Trixie  with  wayward  hair. 

A  far  mirage  of  mingled  sun  and  dream 
Was  born  of  the  noontide  sleep, 

And  the  rifled  fruit  of  the  quandongs  lay 
At  our  feet  in  a  ruddy  heap. 

I  know  that  the  quandong's  burning  fruit 
Still  reddens  the  drowsy  air ; 

That  Trixie  is  grown  and  sometime  wed, 
And  Rita  is  grave  and  fair. 

I  know  that  Meg  of  the  roguish  eyes, 
Though  ten  long  years  be  sped, 

Still  plucks  the  fruit  of  the  quandong  trees 
When  the  quandong  fruit  is  red. 

I  know — and  I  know  to  my  loss,  alas! — 
That  I  stand  where  the  winds  blow  cold, 

And  search,  with  others,  another  tree 
For  its  scanty  fruit  of  gold. 


THE    ARTIST 

THE  year  has  turned  the  corner, 
Cold  June  is  with  the  dead, 
And  Spring,  the  singing  artist. 
Is  mixing  gold  and  red. 

The  red  is  meant  for  roses. 
Rich  roses,  brave  and  bold; 

The  gold  is  for  the  wattle — 
'Tis  delicate,  pale  gold. 

The  Sun,  grown  tired  of  exile, 

Comes  inarching  south  again; 
'Tis  he  that  stays  the  west  wind 
That  chills  the  hearts  of  men. 

There  shall  be  frond  and  feather, 

Glad  ways  of  greenery. 
When  Spring  unveils  her  painting 

For  all  the  world  to  see. 

Oh,  red  'twill  be  and  golden, 
That  canvas  of  the  South: 


The  gold  shall  be  a  girl's  hair. 
The  red  shall  be  her  mouth. 


AN    EMPTY    ROOM 

"T^HIS  is  the  room  where  Pinksie  died'*; 

A      So  runs  the  writing  there  on  the  wall. 
The  world  outside  is  a  golden  tide 

Of  light,  but  here  the  shadows  fall. 

And  who  was  Pinksie — a  babe  or  wife? 

A  girl,  I  think,  in  her  laughing  teens, 
Who  passed  away  from  the  feast  of  life 

When  boys  and  girls  are  kings  and  queens. 

I  like  to  think  that  she  laughed  at  whiles, 
Her  eyes  alight  with  the  imps  of  fun. 

And  knew  no  sorrow  but  such  as  smiles 
The  moment  after  the  hurt  is  done. 

They  named  her  Pinksie,  I  have  no  doubt. 
Because  of  the  rich,  soft  blush  she  wore ; 

The  roses  paled  ere  they  bore  her  out, 
A  slim  child-figure,  through  yonder  door. 

She  passed  in  the  joy  of  her  early  bloom 
To  wide,  dark  realms  where  no  planets  roll. 

And  I  write  these  lines  in  the  empty  room 
Where  Pinksie  died.    God  rest  her  soul ! 


A     WARDROBE 

I  SAID  "The  dark  deed  matters  nought, 
And  this  green  gown  becomes  her  well ; 
For  phrase  and  rhyme  oft  hide  the  thought, 
As  pearls  are  hid  'twixt  shell  and  shell. 

*My  Lady  Lyric,  go  your  way. 
Dance  daintily  around  the  globe, 

Nor  mind  what  carping  critics  say. 

Nor  whence  you  got  your  shining  robe." 

I  have  a  wardrobe,  quaintly  hung 

With  brave  brocade  and  gleaming  silk, 

Plumed  hats,  and  collars  richly  strung. 
With  gems  outgiving  fire  and  milk. 

No  thief  may  raid  its  rare  contents. 
No  years  decay,  nor  moth  devour; 

It  is  not  lavender  that  scents 
The  air,  nor  is  it  any  flower. 

Full  fifty  poets,  day  and  night. 

In  mirth  and  pain  and  dark  despair 

Sat  weaving  for  the  world's  delight 
The  wondrous  fabrics  shining  there. 

'My  peasant  maid  shall  seem  a  queen," 
I  said,  "if  she  be  rich-arrayed" ; 

And  in  another's  cloak  of  green 
I  dressed  the  shoulders  of  my  maid. 


THE    LITTLE    HOUSE 

WHEN  my  heart  goes  a-roving 
'Tis  the  wide  ways  for  me, 
And  the  fields,  and  the  hills, 
And  the  big,  blue  sea. 

Then  'tis  far,  far  I  wander, 
And  'tis  little  that  you  care. 

With  your  wiles,  and  your  smiles, 
And  your  eyes  and  hair. 

But  the  dream  of  you  follows. 

Or  it  gleams  at  my  side ; 
And  I  turn,  turn  about. 

For  the  world  seems  wide. 

There's  a  rose-mist  about  you 
And  'tis  sweet,  sweet  you  are. 

With  your  throat  and  your  cheeks 
And  your  face  a  star. 

When  my  heart  comes  a-homing 
'Tis  the  little  house  I  see, 

Where  you  sit  all  alone 
With  a  stool  for  me. 


THE     SEA-SEEKERS 

ALL  four  of  us  were  inland  born 
And  inland  reared  from  birth  were  we, 
And — though  the  tale  be  food  for  scorn — 
We  four  had  never  seen  the  Sea. 

We  saw  the  sun  by  day ;  by  night 

The  stars  threw  down  their  radiance  keen; 
These  things  were  held  a  goodly  sight, 

But  still  the  Sea  remained  unseen. 

The  sunlit  plains  about  us  spread 

Mile  after  mile  on  every  side; 
But  still,  the  sea-wise  people  said, 

The  blue  salt  waste  was  wondrous  wide. 

On  lonely  rides  and  desert  tramps, 

And  when  we  searched  in  rain  and  dew 

The  breathing  dark  of  cattle-camps, 
A  longing  came  and  thrilled  us  through. 

We  dreamt  of  waters  spreading  far, 
Of  winding  bay  and  shining  reach. 

Of  shouting  reef  and  growling  bar 
And  breakers  crashing  down  a  beach. 


52  THE     SEA-SEEKERS 

The  longing  grew ;  we  could  not  rest ; 

A  vision  beautiful  and  brave 
Allured  us  to  a  mighty  quest 

Of  rolling  sea  and  crested  wave. 

All  four  of  us  were  inland  born 

And  inland  reared  from  birth  were  we; 

We  mounted  early  in  the  morn, 
And,  riding  gaily,  sought  the  Sea. 

We  rode  by  day,  and  camped  by  night. 
And  night  and  day  dreamed  evermore 

Of  dawns  that  broke  in  rosy  light 
On  curling  wave  and  crescent  shore; 

The  red  sun  sank  upon  our  quest. 
The  shadows  fell;  and  in  the  dark 

There  was  no  light  in  East  or  West, 

Save  where  our  camp-fire  burned — a  spark. 

At  times  it  seemed  that  we  could  hear 
The  sound  of  breakers  in  their  fall — 

We  drew  our  reins,  and,  hand  to  ear, 
We  listened  to  the  distant  call. 


THE     SEA-SEEKERS  53 

A  stillness  reigned  from  East  to  West; 

The  trees  and  mountains  seemed  to  swoon; 
And  weirdly  paling  in  the  West 

Went  down  a  late  and  lonely  moon. 

And,  while  the  white  moon  slowly  fell, 

A  scented  breeze  of  morning  blew — 
Though  inland-born  we  knew  it  well, 

That  odour  keen  and  strange  and  new. 

Then  something  seemed  to  burst  its  chains; 

A  wave  of  joy  and  wonder  broke    . 
Across  our  souls,  and  in  our  veins 

An  ancient  Viking  stirred  and  woke. 

A  sound  of  breakers  came  to  stir 

Our  blood,  and  thrill  us  with  delight; 
And  neck  and  neck  with  whip  and  spur 

We  galloped  headlong  through  the  night. 

The  moon  had  sunk ;  but  in  the  sky 

We  saw  the  Dawn's  first  light  of  grey. 
And  straight  as  feathered  arrows  fly 

We  thundered  on  to  meet  the  Day. 


54  THE     SEA-SEEKERS 

Afar  .we  saw  the  shore-line  loom; 

Our  horses,  springing  freely,  strode; 
And  suddenly  in  purple  gloom 

The  sea  gave  greeting  as  we  rode. 

We  galloped  on,  nor  ever  ceased 
Till  gloriously  in  golden  fire 

The  sun  uprose,  and  in  the  East 
We  reached  the  goal  of  our  desire. 

We  pushed  our  horses  through  the  foam. 
The  breakers  swirled  about  their  knees 

And  underneath  the  golden  dome 
We  shouted  to  the  Morning  Seas. 


THE    LOTUS-FLOWER 

ALL  the  heights  of  the  high  shores  gleam 
Red  and  gold  at  the  sunset  hour; 
There  comes  the  spell  of  a  magic  dream, 
And  the  Harbour  seems  a  lotus-flower. 

A  blue  flower  tinted  at  dawn  with  gold, 

A  broad  flower  blazing  with  light  at  noon, 

A  flower  for  ever  with  charms  to  hold 
His  heart  who  sees  it  by  sun  or  moon. 

Its  beauty  burns  like  a  ceaseless  fire, 
And  tower  looks  over  the  top  of  tower; 

For  all  mute  things,  it  would  seem,  aspire 
To  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  lotus-flower. 

Men  meet  its  beauty  with  furrowed  face, 
And  straight  the  furrows  are  smoothed  away 

They  buy  and  sell  in  the  market-place, 
And  langour  leadens  their  blood  all  day. 

At  night  they  look  on  the  flower,  and  lo! 

The  City  passes  with  all  its  cares: 
They  dream  no  more  in  its  azure  glow. 

Of  gold  and  silver  and  stocks  and  shares. 


66  THE    LOTUS-FLOWER 

The  Lotus  dreams  'neath  the  dreaming  skies, 
Its  beauty  touching  with  spell  divine 

The  grey  old  town,  till  the  old  town  lies 
Like  one  half -drunk  with  magic  wine. 

Star-loved,  it  breathes  at  the  midnight  hour 
A  sense  of  peace  from  its  velvet  mouth. 

Though  flowers  be  fair — is  there  any  flower 
Like  this  blue  flower  of  the  radiant  South? 

Sun-loved  and  lit  by  the  moon,  it  yields 
A  challenge-glory  or  glow  serene, 

And  men  bethink  them  of  jewelled  shields, 
A  turquoise  lighting  a  ground  of  green. 

Fond  lovers  pacing  beside  it  see 

Not  death  and  darkness,  but  life  and  light. 

And  dream  no  dream  of  the  witchery 
The  Lotus  sheds  on  the  silent  night. 

Pale  watchers  weary  of  watching  stars 
That  fall,  and  fall,  and  for  ever  fall ; 

Tear-worn,  and  troubled  with  many  scars, 
They  seek  the  Lotus  and  end  life's  thrall. 


THE    LOTUS-FLOWER  57 

The  spirit  spelled  by  the  Lotus  swoons, 

Its  beauty  summons  the  artist  mood; 
And  thus,  perchance,  in  a  thousand  moons 

Its  spell  shall  work  in  our  waiting  blood. 

Then  souls  shall  shine  with  an  old-time  grace. 
And  sense  be  wrapped  in  a  golden  trance, 

And  Art  be  crowned  in  the  market-place. 
With  Love  and  Beauty  and  fair  Romance. 


THE     GOLDEN     YESTERDAY 

AFTER  a  spell  of  chill,  grey  weather, 
(Green,  O  green,  are  the  feet  of  Sprmg!) 
The  heaven  is  here  of  flower  and  feather, 
Of  wild  red  blossom  and  flashing  wing. 

Hither  of  old  queer  flotsam  drifted, 

Borne  on  the  breast  of  an  age-old  stream — 

Men  and  women,  with  hope  uplifted, 
Spurred  and  stirred  by  a  splendid  dream. 

Hither  they  quested,  the  young  and  eager. 
The  social  misfit,  the  aged,  the  banned; 

Friends  were  lacking  and  fortune  meagre, 
And  here  was  promise — the  Promised  Land. 

Each  had  a  goal,  a  star,  a  beacon — 

A  good-bye  smile,  or  a  soft  love-tress — 

To  urge  his  feet  lest  his  feet  should  weaken. 
Drag  and  falter  with  weariness. 

Love  and  honour,  and  mirth  and  pity — 

The  joy  that  brightens,  the  gloom  that  chills- 
Dwelt  at  once  in  the  tented  city, 
Set  of  old  in  these  watching  hills. 


THE     GOLDEN     YESTERDAY  69 

The  birds  aroused  them  with  matin  numbers; 

The  air  was  scented  with  waking  flowers; 
They  woke  renewed  from  their  starHt  slumbers, 

They  toiled,  dream-warmed,  through  the  sunlit  hours. 

They  had  their  triumphs,  their  gains,  their  losses. 
Their  noons  of  laughter,  their  nights  of  care. 

Back  on  the  hills  are  some  rough  crosses — 

A  name  ...  a  date  .  .  .  and,  perchance,  a  prayer. 

It  seems  like  a  dream  that  flashed  and  flitted. 

That  reigned  a  moment  and  passed  away. 
And  only  the  earth — its  kind  face  pitted — 

Tells  the  tale  of  that  old,  dead  day. 

They  dug  the  clay,  and  they  broke  the  boulders ; 

They  turned  the  creek,  and  they  washed  the  mould; 
But  vain  as  makers,  and  vain  as  moulders. 

They  lived  and  wrought  in  the  age  of  Gold. 

They  worked  and  worried,  their  labour  blotching 
The  land's  green  surface  with  scar  and  pit; 

Yet,  all  around  them  the  hills  were  watching 
Flower-crowned,  tree-crested  and  glory-lit. 


60  THE    GOLDEN    YESTERDAY 

Like  time-worn  sages  the  green  hills  waited — 
Clouds  round  their  foreheads,  their  hips  in  grass ; 

They  knew  that  the  man  at  their  feet  was  fated, 
That  he  and  the  work  of  his  hands  would  pass. 

A  breeze  comes  down  from  the  highlands,  smoothing 
The  green  young  wheat,  and  a  bird  makes  mirth. 

And  Spring  is  here,  with  her  soft  hands  soothing 
The  ruined  rocks  and  the  wounded  earth. 

The  diggers  passed:  and  the  last  red  embers 
Of  their  night-fires  they  are  ashen  grey; 

But,  while  hearts  beat  and  the  mind  remembers, 
They  shall  not  fade  as  a  dream  away. 


THE    SEEKER 

GOOD  People,  by  your  fires  to-night 
Sit  close  and  praise  the  red,  red  wood! 
The  wind  is  cold,  the  moon  is  white; 

With  me  who  wander  'tis  not  well;  it  is  not  well,  but 
God  is  good. 

'Fore  birth  I  was  foredoomed  to  roam, 

To  keep  my  soul  and  self  apart, 
An  alien  without  hearth  and  home — 

With  me  who  wander  'tis  not  well ;  there  is  no  warmth 
of  fire  or  heart. 

I  mate  with  all  the  wandering  winds 

That  roam  across  the  wintry  earth; 
What  time  behind  your  close-drawn  blinds 

Your  firelit  faces  smile  and  smile,  I  would  that  I 
might  share  their  mirth. 

But  if  I  entered  I  should  sit 

A  wordless  dreamer  at  your  fire; 
With  heart  unwarmed  and  eyes  unlit, 

I  should  be  like  a  spectre  there,  shut  off  from  you  and 
your  desire. 

And  yet,  I  would  that  I  might  warm 
My  heart  and  hands  at  your  fire-glow ; 


THE    SEEKER 

But  headlong  seas  and  shouting  storm 

They  thrill  my  blood,  they  fill  my  eyes,  they  call  me 
forth,  and  I  must  go. 

Good  People,  maids  and  dames  and  sires. 

Ye  have  your  little  woe  and  mirth ; 
Ye  dream  no  dream ;  but  there  are  spires 

That  point  to  stars,  and  still  point  on  in  spite  of  this 
dark,  drawing  earth. 

It  is  not  well  with  me  to-night. 

And  I  by  that  strange  shore  would  be 
Where,  'twixt  day's  last  grey  gleam  and  night, 

A  Wonder  wanes  that  I  alone  of  all  the  world  must 
seek  and  see. 

What  cliffs  they  be,  what  sea  rolls  there, 

I  do  not  know;  but,  spirit-chained,    - 
Lost  visions  fill  me  with  despair. 

And  all  the  washed  grey  foreland  speaks  of  some 
strange  Wonder  that  has  waned. 

Good  People,  bread  and  wine  are  good. 

And  all  your  visions  goodly  be. 
But  some  may  crave  for  other  food. 

And  some  are  seekers  from  their  birth,  and  dream 
of  lights  they  shall  not  see. 


THE     SEEKER  63 

And  there  is  he  who  fain  would  find 

A  Wonder  by  an  alien  shore: 
Athwart  the  seas  he  speeds  his  mind, 

But  on  the  instant  fades  a  light,  and  lo,  the  Wonder 
is  no  more. 


ARNOLD    RODE    BEHIND 

WE  galloped  down  the  sodden  track 
Close  buttoned  'gainst  the  wind; 
I  took  the  lead  with  whip  and  spur, 
And  Arnold  rode  behind. 

The  skies  were  wild ;  a  rending  gale 
Ran  roaring  through  the  trees; 

It  sounded  now  like  shouting  hosts, 
And  now  like  angry  seas. 

'Spur  on!    Spur  on!"    I  turned  and  cried, 

"The  fatal  moments  fly!" 
I  cursed  him  then — his  trembling  hand — 

I  cursed  his  bloodshot  eye. 

I  cursed  him  for  the  lust  of  drink 

That  held  his  will  a  slave; 
For  skill  to  tend  and  mend  was  his 

To  succour  and  to  save. 

I  thought  of  her,  the  golden  girl. 
My  life,  my  love,  nigh  spent. 

Nigh  death,  with  fever  clutching  her. 
And  what  his  coming  meant. 


ARNOLD     RODE     BEHIND  65 

Through  driving  rain  and  tossing  trees 

I  saw  her  pale  with  pain ; 
And  if  my  eyes  grew  wet,  perchance 

'Twas  not  the  wet  of  rain. 

I  turned  on  Arnold,  and  I  vowed 

To  pay  with  coin  of  hate 
His  ten-mile  ride,  his  boasted  skill, 

If  he  should  prove  too  late; 

I  mixed  my  words  with  searing  scorn, 

And  turned  and  told  him  plain, 
Of  how  I  found  him  stupid,  drugged. 

With  dull  and  sluggish  brain. 

And  how  the  wasted  hours  went  by — 

I  waiting  by  his  side — 
Till  he  should  wake,  and  be  himself, 

And  mount  his  horse  and  ride. 

And  "Arnold,  if  she  die" — I  said — 

"Be  yours  the  lot  accurst — 
In  life  to  thirst,  to  thirst  in  death, 

In  Hell  to  thirst  and  thirst." 


66  ARNOLD     RODE    BEHIND 

And  so  with  black  and  bitter  words, 
Close-buttoned  'gainst  the  wind, 

With  whip  and  spur  I  galloped  on, 
And  Arnold  rode  behind. 


No  word  he  said,  no  answer  gave, 

No  bitter  curse  flung  back, 
But,  sagging  in  the  saddle,  sank 

A  shamed  thing  in  my  track. 

The  skies  were  lead,  and  leaden  rain — 

A  screen  of  sullen  lead. 
A  wind-blown  screen,  a  blinding  screen — 

Fell  down  from  overhead. 

Though  cattle  die,  and  pastures  fade, 
With  drought  on  hill  and  plain, 

'Fore  God,  I  pray  I  may  not  see 
The  like  of  that  blind  rain! 

The  torn  leaves  swirled  about  my  head; 

The  gum-trees  tall  and  stout 
Waved  limbs  and  tossed  tormented  crests 

As  in  a  forest  rout. 


ARNOLD     RODE     BEHIND  67 

The  wind  was  now  like  hounds  a-hunt, 

And  now  Hke  hounds  that  whined. 
Yet  ever  on  and  on  I  rode, 

And  Arnold  rode  behind. 

And  soon  there  rose  a  mighty  noise; 

Above  the  wind  it  roared; 
And.  bursting  through  the  screen  of  rain, 

We  came  to  Kelvin's  Ford. 

I  reined  my  horse  in  mute  amaze, 

A  stunned  and  stricken  man ; 
For  'twixt  me  and  my  heart's  own  love 

A  thwarting  river  ran. 

I  looked  upon  its  maddened  waste; 

I  drew  a  broken  breath ; 
I  said,  "  'Tis  hopeless — ended  all — 

To  dare  the  Ford  were  death." 

The  wind  was  like  a  pack  of  hounds 

Upon  a  forest-hunt —  .  .  . 
And  then  I  heard  a  splash  of  hoofs^ — 

And  Arnold  rode  in  front. 


6S  ARNOLD    RODE    BEHIND 

His  face  was  lit — I  vow  'twas  lit 

Like  glorious  evening  skies; 
And,  as  he  turned  and  smiled,  flashed  out 

The  manhood  from  his  eyes. 

And  then  I  knew  that  through  his  soul 

A  dauntless  purpose  ran 
As,  shaking  shame  and  sin  aside, 

He  rose  once  more  a  Man. 

He  fought  the  river  inch  by  inch, 

Set  will  against  its  might, 
Gave  way  with  it,  and  came  again, 

And  conquered  in  the  fight. 

And  saved  Her  .  .  .  conquered  Death  as  well. 

O  Heart — so  dull,  so  blind ! — 
Oft-times,  denied  his  chance  in  life. 
The  hero  rides  behind. 


MIDNIGHT    AND    MOONLIGHT 

AS  one  singled  out  from  his  fellows, 
Enchanted  I  roam 
Through  night  with  its  music  and  moonlight, 
And  sea-sheen  and  foam. 

*Twas  Beauty  herself  that  awoke  me 

And  whispered  "Arise, 
I  have  lit  all  the  lamps  of  my  palace 

To  gladden  your  eyes!" 

I  rose  at  her  bidding,  and  surely 

'Tis  just  as  she  said — 
The  moon,  spilling  splendour  around  me, 

Brimfull  overhead; 

Rich  perfumes  from  garden  and  garden 

Rare  blossoms  outpour; 
The  sea,  broad  and  bright  to  the  skyline. 

Sings  low  to  the  shore. 

The  beach,  a  brave  riband  of  silver, 

All  radiant  shines, 
'Twixt  the  white  of  the  surf  on  its  sea  edge 

And  the  dark  of  the  pines. 


70  MIDNIGHT    AND     MOONLIGHT 

« 

And  the  white  of  the  surf  on  its  sea-edge 

A  wonder-light  gives, 
And  the  dark  of  the  pines  is  the  darkness 

Where  mystery  lives. 

Can  it  be  that  this  scene  goes  unwitnessed 

Except  by  my  eyes — 
These  splendours  that  start  from  the  ocean 

And  rain  from  the  skies? 

Unaware  of  the  light  and  the  wonder, 

In  slumber  sunk  deep, 
Young  and  old,  they  lie  blind  on  their  couches. 

Eyes  lidded  in  sleep. 

Though  pearl -tinted  breakers  be  falling, 

Unvisioned  they  fall — 
Oh  Sleep!  art  thou  jealous  of  Beauty 

To  hold  them  in  thrall? 


How  I  long  for  a  magical  bugle, 

Sweet-throated  and  clear, 
To  sound  through  their  slumbers  and  wake  them, 

And  summon  them  here! 


MIDNIGHT    AND     MOONLIGHT  71 

Then  old  men  and  young  men  forth-coming 

Would  sigh  their  delight ; 
And  maidens,  white-throated,  barefooted, 

In  garments  of  white; 

And  all  would  speak  well  of  the  bugle. 

And  praise  its  sweet  sound 
That  made  them  the  guest-folk  of  Beauty 

In  radiance  gowned. 

Spell-bound  they  would  stand  in  her  presence. 

Souls  steeped  in  amaze. 
The  thrill  of  her  magic  upon  them — 

Sea-sheen  and  moonrays — 

Spell-bound  with  the  mystic  enchantment, 

Till  one  in  that  throng. 
With  a  rapture  exceeding  all  raptures 

Of  passion  and  song, 

Would  beget  of  his  musing  a  vision 

As  wondrous  as  she 
Who  was  fashioned  of  dream-stuff  and  moonlight 

And  foam  of  the  sea. 


THE    ALLISONS 

ROOF  and  rafter  and  window  and  door 
Totter  and  tumble  in  slow  decay, 
The  house  by  the  creek  is  a  house  no  more 
For  the  Allison  folk  have  gone  away. 

Kept  back  no  more  by  the  hands  of  men — 
Though  here  and  there  bare  tracts  there  be — 

The  bush  has  come  to  its  own  again, 
Little  by  little  and  tree  by  tree. 

Free-footed  winds  through  the  doorways  pass, 
Whispering  much  in  a  guarded  tone; 

Plovers  call  in  the  knee-deep  grass 

That  grows  right  up  to  the  threshold  stone. 

Silence,  watching  the  years,  has  kept 

Vigil  here  with  a  muted  tongue, 
Since  over  yon  threshold-stone  they  stept, 

Man  and  woman,  and  old  and  young. 

Brown-armed  women  and  bearded  men, 
Love  and  labour  and  grief  and  mirth — 

Harvester  Time  has  reaped  since  then 
Crop  after  crop  from  the  teeming  earth ! 


THE    ALLISONS  73 

Nights  there  were  when  these  rafters  rang, 

Echoing  song  till  the  break  of  day, 
Ceasing  not  till  the  dawnlights  sprang, 

Sudden  and  red,  on  the  mists  of  grey. 

Quick  to  answer  to  mateship's  call, 

Rovers,  drovers  and  horsemen  born; 
Drinkers,  fighters  and  lovers  all. 

Laughing  the  law  at  times  to  scorn. 

Hot  in  anger  and  loyal  in  love — 

That  was  ever  the  Allison  way ; 
Kith  of  the  hawk  and  kin  of  the  dove, 

Wild  and  handsome,  and  bold  and  gay. 

Fronting  ever  with  even  face 
Drought  and  danger  and  care  and  need; 

Firm  in  the  saddle  and  first  in  the  race — 
That  was  ever  the  Allison  breed. 

Known  and  named  were  the  Allison  girls, 
Far  and  near  through  the  country  round; 

Some  with  the  noon-gold  in  their  curls. 
Some  with  the  dark  of  midnight  crowned, 


74  THE    ALLISONS 

Dashing  riders  and  dancers  all, 
Bonnie  of  body  and  clean  of  mind, 

Quick  to  answer  at  pity's  call — 
That  was  ever  the  Allison  kind. 

Tinged  and  softened  with  sweet  romance. 
Back  in  the  past  they  rise  again, 

Allison  girls  at  race  and  dance 

Queening  it  over  the  hearts  of  men. 

Slim  and  stalwart,  and  sweet  and  bold, 
Mother  and  maid,  and  man  and  boy ! 

Shadows  move  where  they  moved  of  old, 
Toiled,  and  sorrowed,  and  had  their  joy. 

Part  of  the  past  is  all  their  love, 
All  the  light  of  their  fires  is  dead ! 

Kith  of  the  hawk  and  kin  of  the  dove — 
Dove  and  hawk  in  the  dark  have  fled ! 

Here,  where  the  winds  blow  brave  and  blithe, 
Tossing  and  turning  each  sapling-top, 

Harvester  Time  has  swung  his  scythe, 
Cleared  his  swath,  and  reaped  his  crop. 


THE    GARDENER 

WITHIN  this  garden  space  are  set 
Sweet  mignonette  and  violet, 
Sunk  in  rich  mould ;  at  dawn  and  night 
Their  leaves  dew-wet. 

Who  set  them  in  the  kindly  loam 
Lies  buried  'neath  the  clover-foam 
Of  alien  meadows,  far  away 
From  his  loved  home. 

If  it  be  glory  thus  to  pass 
For  Honour's  sake,  and  'neath  the  grass 
Red-wounded  lie,  then  he,  in  truth, 
Great  glory  has. 

Yet,  blossoms  that  he  loved  and  set! — 
Sweet  mignonette,  sweet  violet — 
Not  Honour's  self,  nor  Glory's  crown. 
Can  stay  regret. 

'Twixt  bud  of  leaf  and  fall  of  leaf. 
Why  should  Fate  in  an  hour  so  brief 
Wreck  flower  and  flower,  and  nurse  alone 
The  cypress — Grief? 


76  THE     GARDENER 


He  is  not  gone — not  all  of  him ; 
For  trees  have  memories;  leaf  and  limb 
Shall  breathe  his  name,  and  grateful  flowers 
At  twilight  dim. 

For  like  these  blooms,  he  left  behind 
Some  fragrance,  subtle  and  refined — 
A  memoried  sweetness  that  shall  haunt 
Tree,  flower  and  wind. 


THE     BLACK     HOUND 

WHITE-TOOTHED  is  the  Black  Hound, 
And  ever,  as  he  comes  after, 
There  is  no  sweetness  in  wine, 
Nor  is  there  joyance  in  laughter. 

Red-tongued  is  the  Black  Hound, 

And  ever,  as  he  speeds  baying, 
There  is  no  shaking  him  off, 

Nor  is  there  stopping  or  staying. 

Keen-sensed  in  the  thick  dark 

He  follows  for  ever  and  ever; 
Nought  stays  him  in  his  pursuit — 

Nor  marsh,  nor  mountain,  nor  river. 

Day-long  through  the  broad  light. 
His  tongue  like  a  flame  outleaping. 

He  hunts;  and  we  fly  before, 

Wan- faced,  foot-weary  and  weeping. 

Night-through  in  the  still  hours 

When  stars  in  the  sky  assemble. 
We  hear  his  cry  on  the  roads, 

And  startled,  staring,  we  tremble. 


78  .  THE    BLACK    HOUND 

White-toothed   is  the   Black   Hound, 
And  speed  to  his  limbs  is  given; 

God  help  and  pity  us  all 
Who  fly  for  ever,  hard-driven! 

Time  comes  when  the  feet  fail 
Or  drag  on  the  ways,  unwilling; 

Then  fast,  froth-flakes  on  his  jaws. 
He  speeds  keen-fanged  to  the  killing. 

Then  some,  as  they  pass,  say — 

Few  pausing,  and  weeping,  fewer — 
"Hound-work  is  this  that  we  see. 
Fang-work  of  him,  the  Pursuer!" 

Black  Care  is  the  Black  Hound, 
And  ever  'tis  his  to  follow 

Pale  men  from  birth  to  that  hour 

When  grave-mouths  open  and  swallow. 


THE    GREATER    LOVE 

ONCE  upon  a  time, 
Little  Golden-Head, 
Steeples  used  to  chime. 

And  their  chiming  said: 
'Peace  is  in  the  land — 
Joy  on  every  hand." 

Glowing  youths  and  men 
Rose  and  went  their  ways, 

Some  to  hill  and  glen, 
Some  to  shining  bays. 

And  they  left  behind 

Ills  of  heart  and  mind. 

Oh,  but  it  was  sweet 
Underneath  the  trees, 

Bare  of  throat  and  feet, 
Bathed  in  golden  ease, 

Two  and  two  to  lie 

While  the  hours  went  by! 

Sweet  indeed  it  was 

Thus  to  lie  and  laze, 
Couched  upon  the  grass 

Through  the  shining  days- 
Sweet  to  breathe  the  air, 
Free  of  toil  and  care! 


80  THE    GREATER    LOVE 

On  the  beaches  then, 
Sporting  with  the  sea, 

Gathered  brown-limbed  men 
Graced  like  statuary 

Chiselled  by  some  bold 

Master  hand  of  old. 

All  were  guests  of  Joy; 

All  his  sportive  clan — 
Here  a  shouting  boy. 

There  a  jesting  man, 
While  the  breakers  hymned. 
Braving  them,  stout-limbed. 

Listen,  Golden-Head! 

Came  a  Wondrous  One 
Unto  each,  and  said: 

"Look  on  me,  my  son! 
Am  I  not  above 
All  things  else  you  love?" 

Then  that  love  began 
Which  is  more  than  life — 

More  than  love  of  man, 
Love  of  maid  or  wife; 

Love  of  queen  or  king, 

Aught  or  anything. 


THE    GREATER    LOVE  81 

Little  Golden-Head, 

Is  it  well  to  tell 
How  they  wrought  and  bled, 

How  they  fought  and  fell 
In  their  glowing  prime, 
Once  upon  a  time  ? 

Nay,  but  it  is  writ 

That  such  things  must  be; 
Oh  the  shame  of  it. 

Oh  the  tragedy! 
Oh  the  days  of  rue, 
Oh  the  glory,  too ! 

Little  Golden-Head, 

By  the  skies  above. 
By  our  honoured  dead. 

You  shall  know  that  love — 
Know,  and  hold  the  time 
When  'twas  born  sublime! 


ACUSHLA 

1    NAMED  her  twice,  I  named  her  thrice, 
I  named  her  ten  times  over ; 
The  wind  heard,  and  the  singing  bird. 
And  the  bee  in  the  creamy  clover. 

Acushla !    Acushla ! 

The  cushat  dove  is  cooing; 
It's  little  that  a  man  may  do. 

Whose  heart  is  hot  with  wooing. 

I  left  the  field,  the  harvest  yield — 
The  grain  was  ripe  to  falling — 

And  ran,  and  ran,  a  crazy  man, 
And  I  the  whole  time  calling 

'Acushla !     Acushla ! 

The  cushat  dove  is  cooing; 
When  Love  is  keeping  holiday. 

What  work  is  worth  the  doing?" 

Her  feet  were  fleet,  her  pretty  feet 

Upon  the  hill  and  hollow ; 
She  bade  me  stay,  she  cried  me  nay, 

And  still  her  eyes  said  "Follow!" 


ACUSHLA  83 


Acushla !    Acushla ! 

The  cushat  dove  is  cooing; 
To  capture  her  was  sweet,  indeed^ 

Yet  sweeter  the  pursuing. 


THE    THREE    KNOCKS 

WHEN  the  owl  that  scared  the  mouse 
Fluffed  his  feathers  and  sat  still. 
And  the  night  around  was  chill, 
On  the  door  of  yonder  house 
Someone  knocked, 
And  a  hand  the  door  unlocked. 

While  the  owl,  aloof  and  drear 
Yellow-eyed  his  vigil  kept, 
Down  the  breeze  a  crying  crept. 

And  it  seemed  to  tell  of  fear — 

Fear  and  care — 

It  was  Life  that  entered  there ! 

When  the  owl  had  greyer  grown 
By  a  score  of  years  and  more, 
On  the  selfsame  cedar  door 

Of  yon  house  that  stands  alone. 

Someone  knocked. 

And  a  hand  the  door  unlocked. 

Yet,  though  many  gracious  flowers 
Wreathed  the  house  from  floor  to  roof, 
In  his  shadowed  haunt  aloof 

Staring  sat  he  through  the  hours, 

Unaware 

It  was  Love  that  entered  there! 


THE     THREE     KNOCKS  85 

When  the  owl  had  passed  away, 
And  the  mouse,  no  more  afraid, 
In  the  tree-glooms  frisked  and  played, 

On  that  door  at  end  of  day 

Someone  knocked. 

And  a  hand  the  door  unlocked. 

Once  and  twice  that  knock  had  come, 

Once  for  Life,  and  once  for  Love; 

Towards  the  night  the  shadows  move, 
And  the  land  lies  still  and  dumb 
Everywhere — 
It  is  Death  that  enters  there! 


THE    RED    MIST 

SHE  thinks  aloud  as  she  sits  alone, 
And  the  magpies  call  in  the  evening  grey — 
Oh,  sorrow  to  her  with  the  heart  of  stone 
Who  stole  my  lover  away,  away! 

There  is  no  peace  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 
And  little  enough  in  the  shine  of  the  sun ; 

And  it's  grieving  and  grieving  that  darkens  the  noon, 
And  troubles  me  sore  till  the  salt  tears  run. 

There's  Joyce  with  the  red  cheeks  says  to  me, 
Herself  as  gay  as  a  crowned  young  queen : 
"It's  pale  you  are,  and  it's  sick,  maybe; 
And  what  is  it  ails  your  heart,  Noreen?" 

At  that  I  say,  with  a  laugh  in  my  voice 
(For  grief  is  an  ill,  dark  thing  to  show)  : 
"It's  you  with  your  tricks  and  your  capers,  Joyce, 
And  the  imp  in  your  eyes  that  makes  me  so." 

There's  one  and  another  from  near  and  far 

Who  come  with  their  kind,  sweet  neighbour-speech ; 
"It's  sick  you  look,  and  it's  pale  you  are; 

And  what  have  you  done  with  your  bloom  of  the  peach?' 


THE     RED     MIST  87 

I  sit  and  listen,  but  may  not  tell; 

As  an  actor  plays,  I  play  my  part ; 
It's  little  they'd  care  (as  my  heart  knows  wellj, 

If  they  but  knew  the  hurt  of  my  heart. 

And  even  Joyce,  who  is  kind  as  kind, 
Would  make  a  jest  of  my  pain,  perchance; 

For  a  feather  afloat  on  an  idle  wind 

Means  more  to  the  world  than  a  spoiled  romance. 

If  I  were  a  man  I  would  do  so  much — 
Be  brave,  make  light  of  my  weight  of  care, 

Bring  ease  to  my  mind  with  a  master-touch. 
And  find  fit  food  for  my  heart  elsewhere. 

Yet  soft  and  shy  as  a  cooing  dove 

(For  that  he  thought  me,  and  thinks  me  yet) 

I  cannot  rest  for  remembering  love, 

Nor  dream  of  a  time  when  I  may  forget. 

I  think  of  his  kisses  that  warmed  like  wine 
When  the  low  night-winds  in  the  pine  trees  played, 

And  the  lilies,  white  in  the  white  moonshine, 
A  startling  light  in  the  garden  made. 


88  THE    RED     MIST 

I  think  of  his  voice  in  those  honeyed  hours, 
And  wonder  if  words  are  flowers  sometimes, 

All  scent  and  colour — are  chiming  flowers 
That  thrill  the  blood  with  their  magic  chimes 

And  then,  the  thought  of  the  Other  comes, 
Her  wiles  and  wonder  and  luring  lies, 

And  the  blood  in  my  ears  is  a  throb  of  drums, 
And  a  red  mist  glimmers  before  my  eyes. 

And  I  go  to  the  place  where  the  thing  lies  hid, 
And  its  blade  takes  fire  at  my  burning  touch; 

And  I  say  to  myself :  "If  the  world  were  rid 
Of  three  lives  more,  would  it  matter  much? 

"Would  it  matter  much  in  the  big  world's  sight 
If  the  sorry  farce  to  the  end  were  played. 
And  three  ghosts  trod  through  the  Outer  Night — 
The  Loved,  the  Lover,  the  Love  Betrayed? 

"If  one  that  suffers  and  two  that  sing 

Were  made  cold  clay,  were  it  well  or  ill?" 

And  I  grasp  the  haft  of  the  jewelled  thing, 

And  stand  in  the  lamplight  pale  and  still. 


THE     RED     MIST  89 

And  then  I  shudder,  and  sob  and  sink, 

And  lie,  eyes  hid,  with  the  light  turned  low. 

Like  one  who  stands  on  an  awful  brink, 

Wild-eyed,  and  trembling,  and  breathing  slow ; 

And  then  comes  Joyce  with  her  joyous  cries : 
"Come  out  in  the  night,  come  dance  with  me!" 

And  I  smooth  my  hair  and  I  soothe  my  eyes — 
But  I  know  what  the  end  of  it  all  shall  be. 


THE     VIGIL 

THE  rain  is  falling  on  the  roof, 
And  no  sound  else  disturbs  the  wife, 
Except  the  trees  and  winds  at  strife, 
Now  near  at  hand  and  now  aloof; 
But  listening,  leaning  evermore, 
She  waits  a  knock  upon  the  door. 

Her  hair  is  braided  round  her  head; 

Her  eyes  are  large  and  fierce  and  bright; 

Her  shapely  throat  is  soft  and  white; 
And  on  her  mouth  there  burns  the  red 
Of  that  rich^  storied  gem  that  shone 
Upon  the  breast  of  Prester  John. 

Upon  the  couch  her  husband  lies. 

How  is  it  that  he  lies  so  still? 

Why  sleeps  he  there  so  pale  and  chill, 
The  lamplight  on  his  lidded  eyes? 
Has  she  not  fire,  and  more  than  fire 
To  thrill  his  flesh  with  hot  desire? 

Anon  she  lifts  her  rounded  arms 
As  though  to  feel  that  she  is  free; 
And  her  large  eyes  exultantly 

Light  up,  as  when  the  dawn-glow  charms 

With  roseate  lights  that  gleam  and  glance 

Twin  pools  to  sudden  radiance. 


THE     VIGIL  91 

The  rain  is  falling  on  the  roof; 

Yet,  though  her  ears  are  open  wide, 

There  is  no  other  sound  outside — 
No  fall  of  foot,  nor  tramp  of  hoof. 
And  on  his  couch  with  lidded  eyes 
The  husband,  cold  and  pallid,  lies. 

The  midnight  sky  is  wild  and  black 

And  drenches  earth  with  ceaseless  tears; 
And  now  it  seems  to  her  she  hears 

Hoof-strokes  upon  the  sodden  track; 

And  now  she  rises,  sweet  as  sin. 

To  let  the  late  night-strayer  in. 

The  lamplight  gleams  upon  his  face. 

And  glistens  on  his  reddened  spur; 

He  stretches  out  his  arms  to  her 
And  folds  her  in  a  rude  embrace.  .  .  . 
How  can  it  be  the  husband  lies 
So  still,  with  heavy-lidded  eyes? 

Perchance  he  neither  sees  nor  hears, 
And  sleeps  unmoved  by  chance  or  change. 
And  yet  ....  and  yet,  it  seems  so  strange — 

If  he  be  dead  there  should  be  tears. 

Not  love  nor  smiles,  nor  midnight  bliss. 

Nor  mouths  that  marry  in  a  kiss. 


92  THE    VIGIL 

The  loud  winds  thrust  upon  the  door, 
The  raindrops  plash  against  the  roof, 
The  trickles  from  a  waterproof 

Make  little  pools  upon  the  floor; 

No  foe  between,  no  more  apart, 

They  stand,  heart  throbbing  back  to  heart. 

Anon  she  says :  "He  died  this  morn. 

He  did  not  die  a  whit  too  soon; 

Life's  day,  alas,  makes  towards  its  noon. 
He  should  have  died  when  love  was  born. 
He  should  have  died  long  since.     And  now 
Kiss  me  again — ^my  mouth,  my  brow!" 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  COMMONWEALTH 
(January  i,  1901) 
I 

WE  sent  a  word  across  the  seas  that  said 
"The  house  is  finished,  and  the  doors  are  wide : 
Come,  enter  in. 

A  stately  house  it  is,  with  tables  spread, 
Where  men  in  liberty  and  love  abide 
With  hearts  akin. 

'Behold,  how  high  our  hands  have  lifted  it! 

The  soil  it  stands  upon  is  pure  and  sweet 

As  are  our  skies. 

Our  title  deeds  in  holy  sweat  are  writ, 

Not  red  accusing  blood ;  and  'neath  our  feet 

No  foeman  lies." 

And  England,  storied  England,  leans  her  face 
Upon  her  hand,  and  feels  her  blood  burn  young 
At  what  she  sees : 

The  image  here  of  that  fair  strength  and  grace 
That  made  her  feared  and  loved  and  sought  and  sung 
Through  centuries. 


94  THE    HOUSE    OF    THE    COMMONWEALTH 

II 

What  chorus  shall  we  lift,  what  song  of  joy, 

What  boom  of  seaward  cannon,  roll  of  drums? 

The  majesty  of  nationhood  demands 

A  burst  of  royal  sounds — as  when  a  victor  comes 

From  peril  of  a  thousand  foes, 

An  empire's  honour  saved  from  death 

Brought  home  again;  an  added  rose 

Of  victory  upon  its  wreath. 

In  this  wise  men  have  greeted  kings. 

In  name  or  fame, 

But  such  acclaim 

Were  vain  and  emptiest  of  things 

If  love  were  silent,  drawn  apart. 

And  mute  the  People's  mighty  heart. 


Ill 

The  love  that  ivy-like  an  ancient  land  doth  cherish, 
It  grows  not  in  a  day,  nor  in  a  year  doth  perish. 

But,  little  leaf  by  leaf. 
It  creeps  along  the  walls  and  wreathes  the  ramparts  hoary. 
The  sun  that  gives  it  strength,  it  is  a  nation's  glory ; 

The  dew,  a  people's  grief. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    THE    COMMONWEALTH  95 

The  love  that  ivy-like  around  a  home-land  lingers, 

With  soft  embrace  of  breast  and  green,  caressive  fingers, 

We  are  too  young  to  know. 
Not  ours  the  glory-domes,  the  monuments  and  arches 
At  thought  of  which  the  blood  takes  arms,  and  proudly  marches 

Exultant  o'er  the  foe. 

Green  lands  undesolated 

For  no  avengement  cry; 

No  feud  of  race  unsated 

Leaps  out  again  to  triumph. 

Leaps  out  again  to  triumph, 

Leaps  out  again  to  triumph,  or  to  die ! 

IV 

Attendant  here  to-day  in  heart  and  mind 

Must  be  all  lovers  of  mankind; 

Attendant,  too,  the  souls  sublime — 

The  Prophet-souls  of  every  clime, 

Who,  living  in  a  tyrant's  time. 

Yet  thought  and  wrought  and  sought  to  break 

The  chains  about  mankind  and  make 

A  man  where  Kings  had  made  a  slave : 

Who,  all  intent  to  lift  and  save, 

Beheld  the  flag  of  Freedom  wave 

And  scorned  the  prison  or  the  grave; 


96  THE    HOUSE    OF    THE    COMMONWEALTH 

For  whom  the  night-wrack  failed  to  mar 

The  vision  of  a  world  afar, 

The  shining  of  the  Morning  Star. 

Attendant  here,  then,  they  must  be, 

And  gathering  close  with  eyes  elate 

Behold  the  vision  of  a  State 

Where  men  are  equal,  just,  and  free: 

A  State  that  has  no  stain  upon  her, 

No  taint  to  hurt  her  maiden  honour; 

A  Home  where  love  and  kindness  centre; 

A  People's  House  where  all  may  enter, 

And,  having  entered,  meet  no  dearth 

Of  welcome  round  a  common  hearth; 

A  People's  House  not  built  of  stone. 

Nor  wrought  by  hand  and  brain  alone. 

But  formed  and  founded  on  the  heart; 

A  People's  House,  a  People's  Home, 

Begirt  with  seas  and  far  apart; 

A  People's  House,  where  all  may  roam 

The  many  rooms  and  be  at  ease; 

A  People's  House,  with  tower  and  dome; 

And  over  all  a  People's  Flag — 

A  Flag  upon  the  breeze. 


THE    HOUSE    OF    THE    COMMONWEALTH  97 


Behold  how,  hand  in  hand,  we  trust 

The  future  fearlessly,  content 

To  feel  that  here  the  common  breast 

Will  nurse  the  truth,  that  nought  unjust 

Shall  stain  or  shame  our  Continent, 

That  each  will  seek  to  give  the  best 

His  heart  doth  hold,  to  make  his  housemates'  path  in  life 

A  broad  way,  smooth,  and  cool,  and  free  of  strife. 

The  North  still  lingers  in  our  blood — 

O  well  for  us!    But  softer  suns 

May  clog  our  veins  and  steal  our  might ; 

Beware,  beware  the  lotus-mood! 

Toil  on,  strive  on,  till  fiercer  runs 

The  great  race-artery,  and  bright 

As  eagles'  be  our  gaze,  our  strength  the  strength  of  steel. 

To  look  the  Future  in  the  face,  to  meet  her,  woe  or  weal. 


VI 

O  Light  in  the  Darkness, 
O  Beacon  above  us! 
Lend  counsel  and  light, 
Be  near  us  and  love  us. 


98  THE    HOUSE    OF    THE    COMMONWEALTH 

O  Maker  of  Nations, 
Bestead  us  and  make  us 
So  firm  in  the  future 
That  nothing  shall  shake  us! 

We  built  for  Thy  Glory, 
Thy  Wisdom  beseeching; 
We  founded  and  fashioned 
Our  house  on  Thy  Teaching. 

Lest  treason  should  rend  it, 
Or  red  war  enfold  it, 
Be  near  it,  O  Maker, 
Be  near  and  uphold  it! 


THE    SWAMP 


FOR  one  whole  day  and  a  long  night  through 
We  made  our  camp 
In  a  she-oak  grove  by  a  coastal  swamp. 


Our  tent  gleamed  white  m  the  she-oak  trees, 

Whose  falling  hair 

Made  a  soft,  brown  mist  in  the  sweet  blue  air. 

A  sound  subdued  from  their  tresses  rose — 

A  moan,  a  sigh 

As  of  unseen  seas,  when  the  breeze  went  by. 

'Twas  wattle-time,  and  the  scented  bloom, 

New  lit  and  young, 

In  a  mass  of  gold  from  the  still  trees  hung. 

There  music  dwelt,  and  a  splendour  moved 

Through  all  the  day 

From  the  green  of  dawn  to  the  twilight  gray. 

For  careless  ever,  like  one  who  goes 

Where  Joyance  leads, 

Sang  the  little  reed-bird  in  the  tall,  green  reeds. 


100  THE     SWAMP 

Blue,  swift  and  slender  the  dragonflies 

A-hawking  flew. 

And  a  hawk  hung  poised  in  the  burning  blue. 


A  crane,  slow-flapping  its  great  wings,  passed 

Across  the  scene. 

And  a  parrot  jewelled  the  leafy  screen. 

In  twos  and  threes  from  the  hills  around 

The  peewits  came, 

And  the  brush-flower  burnt  like  a  crimson  flame. 

On  ti-tree  trunk  and  on  frond  and  log 

The  lizards  slept, 

While  the  sun  moved  west,  and  the  shadows  crept. 

The  sun  moved  west,  and  the  tall  hills  sent 

Broad  shadows  east. 

And  the  reed-bird's  song  in  the  reed-beds  ceased. 

Then  fell  a  hush,  and  within  that  hush 

Rose,  clear  and  shrill, 

A  cicada  note  on  a  distant  hill. 


THE    SWAMP  101 

A  note  of  farewell,  it  seemed  to  us, 

Its  singing  bore; 

And  the  night  came  down,  and  it  sang  no  more. 

Night  came  with  shadows  and  fitful  gleams 

And  mist  and  damp, 

And  our  fire  burned  red  by  the  coastal  swamp. 

Then  life  not  known  of  the  daytime  woke — 

That  life  that  preys 

On  the  feathered  things  of  the  leafy  ways. 

We  heard  feet  moving,  and  velvet  wings 

On  swamp  and  height, 

And  a  dingo  howling  across  the  night. 

As,  faces  lit  by  the  red  camp-fire, 

We  mused  enthralled. 

Like  a  lone,  lost  spirit  a  curlew  called; 

Brown  crickets  sang  in  the  moisty  mould, 

And  every  breeze 

Drew  a  moaning  note  from  the  she-oak  trees. 


102  THE     SWAMP 

And  all  night  long,  as  they  swayed  and  moaned, 

Strange  fancies  woke, 

And  we  could  not  rest  for  the  things  they  spoke. 

Thus  much  and  more  through  the  hours  we  saw ; 

Thus  much  we  heard 

In  that  place  of  blossom  and  tree  and  bird. 

Since  then  gold  wattles  have  bloomed  and  bloomed, 

And  moons  aloft 

In  the  sky  have  wizened  and  waned  full  oft. 

And  yet,  at  times,  when  the  night  is  still. 

In  dreams  I  tramp 

Through  the  white  sand-dunes  to  that  coastal  camp. 


Y 


SHELL-MUSIC 

OU  with  the  shell  to  your  ear. 
What  do  you  hear, 
Slim  and  so  white 
In  the  moonlight? 
"Oh,  I  hear  surging  and  shouting  arni  singing, 
The  sea-folk  at  market — their  little  bells  ringing. 

The  tall  weeds  about  them,  the  green  world  above ! 
Oh,  blithe  are  the  pedlars  of  ribbons  and  laces. 
Yet  blither  and  sweeter  upon  the  wide  spaces 
The  footfalls  of  Love!" 

You  with  the  shell  to  your  ear, 
What  do  you  hear. 
Waves  at  your  feet, 
White  and  so  sweet? 
"Oh,  I  hear  cooing  and  kissing  and  cooing, 
The  sound  of  sea-folk  in  their  coral  groves  wooing, 

The  red  branches  round  them,  the  green  world  above! 
Oh,  sweet  are  the  songs  of  the  witching  sea-daughters, 
But  sweeter,  far  sweeter,  upon  the  wide  waters, 
The  footfalls  of  Love!" 

You  with  the  shell  to  your  ear, 
What  do  you  hear. 
Large  eyes  aglow. 
Forehead  of  snow? 


104  SHELL-MUSIC 

"Oh,  I  hear  shouting  and  sobbing  and  sighing, 
The  sounds  of  the  sea-folk  in  battle-rage  vieing, 

The  torn  weeds  about  them,  the  green  world  above ! 
The  merman  may  shout  as  he  stumbles  and  slaughters. 
But,  ever  and  ever,  I  hear  on  the  waters 

The  footfalls  of  Love !" 

You  with  the  shell  to  your  ear, 
What  do  you  hear, 
As  you  stand  there, 
Pale  and  so  fair? 
"Oh,  as  frost  on  the  seaways  the  foam-spaces  glisten; 
My  heart  is  the  shell,  to  its  echoes  I  listen; 

Red  petals,  rose  petals  around  and  above! 
Oh  sweeter,  far  sweeter,  than  little  bells  ringing 
Or  market-men  shouting,  or  mermaidens  singing. 
The  footfalls  of  Love!" 


DROVERS    TWAIN 

WHERE  was  no  shadow  on  the  land, 
No  cloud  in  heaven's  dome, 
When,  bearded  man  and  beardless  boy, 
Our  hearts  alight  with  morning  joy, 
Across  the  hills  of  Duckmaloi 
We  drove  the  cattle  home. 

The  sunrays  danced  a  merry  jig 

On  grass  and  bracken  brown; 
And  right  and  left,  and  left  and  right, 
The  magpies  piped  in  sheer  delight. 
As  over  creekside  flat  and  height 

We  drove  the  cattle  down. 

With  fiery  eyes  and  tossing  horns, 

And  swaying  sides  and  hips. 
They  moved — red  hides  and  hides  of  black — 
And  ever,  as  they  left  the  track. 
We  wheeled,  and  held,  and  drove  them  back 

With  shouts  and  cracking  whips. 

There  is  no  joy  in  all  the  world 

Of  such  a  bloom  and  blush 
As  that  the  charging  rider  feels 
When  at  some  frenzied  scrubber's  heels. 
His  stockwhip  making  curves  and  wheels. 

He  thunders  through  the  bush. 


106  DROVERS    TWAIN 

Knees  gripping  hard,  he  dashes  on, 

The  swift  wind  in  his  hair; 

Whatever  befall,  whatever  betide, 

All  thought  of  peril  thrust  aside, 

He  feels  the  glory  and  the  pride 

Of  those  who  finely  dare. 

The  moving  mob  was  mountain-reared 

And  mountain-bred  and  born, 
Their  hides  of  brand  and  marking  clear — 
As  shy  as  deer,  as  swift  as  deer 
Who  over  heath  and  highland  hear 
The  huntsman's  early  horn. 

And  yet  with  dog  and  spur  and  whip, 

Our  horses  flaked  with  foam, 
The  magpies  singing  all  the  while, 
Through  hour  and  hour  and  mile  and  mile, 
For  all  their  speed  of  hoof  and  guile. 
We  brought  the  cattle  home. 

A  score  of  years  has  passed  away. 

Slow  filing  on,  since  then ; 
And  Time,  who  knows  no  sparing  ruth. 
And  Wisdom,  armed  with  bitter  truth. 
Have  tamed  the  heart  of  reckless  youth 

And  greyed  the  beards  of  men. 


DROVERS    TWAIN  107 

Yet  evermore,  when  cattle  low 

Across  the  bracken  brown, 
I  see  again  that  man  and  boy 
As  when,  alight  with  morning  joy, 
Across  the  hills  of  Duckmaloi 

They  drove  the  cattle  down. 


TIDINGS 

THE  darkness  gripped  us,  hot,  intense; 
The  sea  snored  h'ke  some  sleeping  brute; 
We  stood  alert,  with  every  sense 

Like  some  leashed  hound,  nerve-thrilled,  acute. 

About  us  clammy  dew  made  wet 

The  thin,  green  leaves  and  sleeping  flowers; 
Strained  eyes  against  the  night  we  set; 

Strained  ears,  like  open  doors,  were  ours. 

No  sight!  save  when  across  the  black 
Broad  breast  of  night  fierce  lightning  tore 

A  ragged  gash,  a  serpent  track. 

And  thunder  answered  the  sea's  snore. 

One  sighed,  and  one  would  no  more  sfarid 
At  easeless  rest,  but  drooping  walked; 

Then,  though  none  spoke,  one  raised  his  hand 
As  if  to  silence  tongues  that  talked. 

We  heard  it!    On  the  granite  ground 
It  sounded  nigh,  and  on  the  beach 

It  grew  remote;  upon  that  sound 

With  seeking  eyes  each  questioned  each. 


TIDINGS  109 

Grouped  close,  like  men  of  carven  stone — 
Chilled  stone — we  stood  with  rooted  feet. 
"He  comes !    What  news  ?"    Not  hoofs  alone 
In  that  tense  moment  swiftly  beat. 

Cried  one:  "Toy  rides  at  such  a  pace, 
Joy  swift  of  hoof,  and  light  as  air!" 
Said  one — eyes  sunk,  and  pallid  face — 
"So  too,  at  times,  rides  dread  Despair !" 

We  waited,  vexed  by  dumb  surmise. 
Eyes  wide,  lips  wide,  tense  faces  white; 

Ears  served  till  ears  gave  place  to  eyes, 
Sound  likewise  yielding  unto  sight. 

He  came  with  headlong  speed  and  dash. 
Fierce  lightning  lighting  land  and  sea. 

And  in  that  red,  revealing  flash 
He  rose  and  shouted  "Victory !" 


THE    SURRENDER 

HERE,  in  the  new  day's  golden  splendour — 
Headlands  pushing  their  foreheads   forward- 
Sweet  is  the  surfer's  glad  surrender 
To  the  will  of  the  wave,  as  it  rushes  shoreward. 

Nought  in  his  ears  but  the  breaker's  thunder. 
Arrowing  on  through  the  surf  he  flies. 

Foam  about  him  and  clean  sands  under. 
Over  him  arching  the  radiant  skies. 

Yielding  himself  as  a  toy  to  the  ocean, 
Locked  and  mute  in  its  fierce  embraces, 

Thrilled  and  filled  with  the  joy  of  motion. 

Limbs  outstretched,  through  the  swirl  he  races. 

Here,  in  the  gold  day's  new-born  splendour, 

Sea  winds  sighing  in  tree  and  cave. 
Sweet  it  is  in  a  glad  surrender 

Thus  to  yield  to  the  will  of  the  wave. 


THE    FIDDLE    AND    THE    CROWD 

WHEN  the  day  was  at  its  middle, 
Tired  of  limb  and  slow  of  pace, 

Came  a  fiddler  with  his  fiddle 

« 

To  a  crowded  market  place; 
Lying,  cheating,  boasting,  bragging, 

Men  and  women  walked  together; 
Heads  were  nodding,  tongues  were  wagging, 

Talk  there  was  of  trade  and  weather. 
Talk  there  was  of  man's  enslavement 

To  the  tyrants,  Toil  and  Worry ; 
Yet  the  fiddle  on  the  pavement 

Minding  not  the  noise  and  hurry, 
Singing  low  and  singing  loud — 
Spoke  its  message  to  the  crowd. 

Said  the  fiddle — 
"Pause  and  listen; 

Can't  you  hear  the  waters  running 
Down  the  mossy  mountain  valleys? 
Don't  you  see  the  lyre-bird  sunning 
Glossy  plumes  in  fronded  alleys? 
Life  is  glory,  life  is  glamour!" 
Said  the  fiddle 
In  the  middle 

Of  the  tumult  and  the  clamour. 


112  THE    FIDDLE    AND    THE     CROWD 

Though  unheeded  seemed  the  fiddle, 

Bidding  each  and  all  rejoice, 
When  the  day  was  at  its  middle — 

Yet  beneath  its  magic  voice, 
Laughing,  sobbing,  teasing,  fretting, 

Men  and  women  met  together, 
Smiled  to  find  themselves  forgetting 

Troublous  thoughts  of  trade  and  weather 
One  bethought  him  of  a  cavern 

Cool  and  sweet  with  running  water, 
And  another  of  a  tavern 

And  a  tavern-keeper's  daughter — 
Ale  to  drink  and  lips  to  kiss — 
'Twas  the  fiddle  did  all  this ! 

Said  the  fiddle— 
"Hush  and  hearken 

To  the  song  that  I  am  singing, 
For  it  is  a  song  entrancing. 

Telling  now  of  gladness  ringing, 
Telling  now  of  children  dancing; 
Life  is  music,  life  is  glamour." 
Said  the  fiddle 
In  the  middle 

Of  the  tumult  and  the  clamour. 


THE    LOVERS*    WALK 

BY  the  slowly  flowing  river 
Lies  the  old,  shadowed  walk, 
Where  the  lovers,  two  and  two. 
Ere  the  falling  of  the  dew, 
Of  the  sweetest  thing  on  earth  in  the 
soft  shadows  talk. 

For,  though  honey  has  a  sweetness, 

As  the  tasting  palate  knows. 

Yet  young  love  is  sweeter,  sure, 
Than  the  honey,  pale  and  pure, 

That  the  brown  bee  gets  from  the  heart 
of  the  rose. 

Though  there's  music  in  the  waters 
And  the  singing  of  the  birds, 

Yet  a  richer  music  dwells 

In  the  tale  each  couple  tells 
In  that  scene  of  green  enchantment,  as 
they  put  their  hearts  in  words. 

Though  they  have  not  throne  or  sceptre. 
They  are  kings  and  queens,  in  truth; 

And  their  realm  is  all  their  own. 

And  they  rule  in  it  alone. 
For  the  wonder  and  the  splendour  of  the 
world  belong  to  youth. 


114  THE     LOVERS'     WALK 

Neither  man  nor  maid  may  hasten, 
Neither  man  nor  maid  may  baulk 
The  river  on  its  way, 
As  it  murmurs,  day  by  day. 
By  the  singing,  scented  places  of  the 
old  Lovers'  Walk. 

There  the  wattle  has  its  season, 

And  the  lily  flames  awhile, 
And  the  pink  boronia  blooms. 
And  the  orchid  lights  the  glooms 

Of  the  deep,  green  gully  and  the  far 
forest  aisle. 

There  the  wattle  fades  and  withers, 

And  the  lily  on  its  stalk; 

But  new  couples,  wreathed  and  crowned, 
Through  the  seasons  round  and  round 

Dream  their  dreams,  link  their  hands  on  the 
old  Lovers'  Walk. 

There  they  tell  the  one  tale  over 
And  they  plight  again  their  troth. 
And  they  bend  above  the  stream 
In  the  sunset's  dying  gleam; 
It  might  seem  the  river  cares  not,  yet  the 
river  mirrors  both. 


THE     LOVERS'     WALK  115 

Oh,  how  many  happy  lovers 
Has  that  gleaming  river  glassed! 

Oh,  what  folk  alight  with  joy, 

Dancing  girl,  and  glowing  boy, 
Youth  and  Beauty  linked  together  in  the 
dim,  sweet  past! 

Now  a  frond  goes  down  the  current, 
Now  a  flower  the  eddies  turn, 

But  the  lovers  never  sigh 

As  they  watch  them  drifting  by. 
Nor  bethink  them  of  the  moments  that 
are  like  to  flower  and  fern. 

Yet  a  hungry  sea  is  calling. 
Though  a  distant  sea  it  be; 

And  the  lovers'  golden  hours 

Are  as  drifting  ferns  and  flowers, 
And  a  river,  not  their  river,  takes  them 
onward  to  the  sea. 

Oh,  the  splendour,  and  the  raptures, 
And  the  hours  of  rose  and  rhyme! 

Oh,  the  passion-thirst  that  sips 

At  the  fount  of  rosy  lips! 
Oh,  the  slowly-moving  waters  of  the  river 
like  to  Time! 


116  THE     LOVERS'     WALK 

As  the  fading  of  the  wattle 

Or  the  lily  on  its  stalk, 
Or  the  dewdrop  from  the  grass, 
So  the  glory  goes,  alas. 

From  the  sweet  dreams  dreamt  on  the 
old  Lovers'  Walk. 


THE     HIDDEN     HEART 

AS  I  rode  out  of  Lochinvar 
About  me  all  the  scene  was  fair; 
The  skies,  with  not  a  cloud  to  mar, 

Were  filled  with  fresh  and  dewy  air. 
While  making  song,  a  merry  throng, 
The  thrushes  warbled  everywhere. 

As  I  rode  out  of  Lochinvar 

Through  Fairydom  I  seemed  to  go, 

For  round  about,  and  near  and  far. 
Enchanted  lights  began  to  glow; 

And  where  I  went,  on  what  intent. 
And  who  I  was  I  did  not  know! 

For  lo,  I  met  a  troubadour 

As  I  rode  out  of  Lochinvar; 
His  like  on  earth  is  seen  no  more, 

With  feathered  hat  and  gay  guitar; 
And  loud  and  clear,  and  sweet  to  hear. 

He  sang  a  song  of  love  and  war. 

As  I  rode  out  of  Lochinvar 

He  sang  a  song  I  somehow  knew, 

The  while  he  touched  his  gay  guitar; 
And  when  I  asked  him,  "Who  are  you?" 

'Yourself !"  he  said — and  bowed  his  head. 
And  vanished  like  the  morning  dew. 


118  THE    HIDDEN     HEART 

Though  I  may  see  him  nevermore, 
This  much  in  very  truth  I  ken, 

That  one,  at  heart  a  troubadour. 
May  seem  a  sober  citizen, 

Who  sets  afar  his  gay  guitar 
To  seem  just  like  his  fellow  mea 


o 


ON    THE    BARRIER 

N  the  Barrier  Ranges, 

Grim,  and  grey  and  old. 
Spring,  the  Maid  of  Wonder, 

Spreads  her  cloth-of-gold ; 
Every  hill  and  hollow 

Carpeting  with  flowers — 
O  for  feet  to  follow 

Through  the  shining  hours! 

Once  I  saw  the  damsel — 

Watched  her  at  her  task. 
Basking  in  her  glamour 

As  the  lizards  bask: 
And,  if  I  remember 

Aught  of  gleam  and  glow, 
'Tis  that  sweet  September 

Twenty  years  ago. 

Twenty  golden  springtides — 

Much — and  yet  how  slight 
Measured  with  that  region, 

Hollow-land  and  height; 
Biding  through  Earth's  changes, 

Steadfast  to  its  shocks, 
Oldest  of  the  Ranges, 

Ancientest  of  Rocks! 


130  ON     THE     BARRIER 

If  with  sweet  recurrence 

Youth   renews   the  Earth, 
Shall  there  come  no  glory — 

Light  and  song  and  mirth — 
Unto  us  who  ponder 

Much  on  banished  joys? 
Spring,  thou  Maid  of  Wonder, 

Make  us  girls  and  boys ! 


THE  DREAD  BEYOND  DEATH 

WHY  do  you  shudder  and  stare, 
Grown  cold  in  a  moment  and  white? 
The  moon's  at  her  full,  and  the  air 
Is  flooded  with  wonderful  light. 

There  is  never  a  sound  or  a  sign 
Or  a  shadow  of  harm  in  the  trees, 

And  the  little  leaves  ripple  and  shine 
At  the  kiss  and  caress  of  the  breeze. 

You  tremble  and  shudder,  my  love, 
As  a  hare  at  a  hound's  flashing  fangs — 

As  a  bird,  when  in  azure  above 
A  poising  hawk  motionless  hangs. 

Fear  not,  and  the  terror  shall  yield 
To  peace  and  to  sweetness  at  length ; 

My  love  is  a  guard  and  a  shield, 

My  arms  are  a  fortress  and  strength. 

7  fear  not  the  hawk  in  the  sky, 

Or  the  hound,  though  his  fangs  flash  anear; 
A  dread  beyond  death  makes  me  sigh — 
'Tis  the  end  of  our  love  that  I  fear!' 


ALL    OF    A    PIECE 

ALL  of  a  piece  were  the  sunset  light, 
The  rose  in  the  tree,  and  the  golden  girl ; 
Beauty,  the  weaver,  'twas  that  wove  them, 
Weaving  deftly,  as  Beauty  can, 
Just  to  capture  the  eyes  of  a  man, 
Just  to  make  the  heart  of  him  love  them, 
Setting  the  blood  in  his  veins  a-swirl; 
Ah,  the  rose,  and  the  girl,  its  piece-mate ! 
Ah,  the  sunset  of  rose  and  pearl ! 

All  of  a  piece  are  the  faded  light. 

The  rose  in  the  mire  and  the  girl  grown  old ; 

Beauty,  the  trickster,  'twas  that  wove  them, 

Weaving  deftly,  as  Beauty  can, 

Just  to  capture  the  soul  of  a  man. 

Just  to  make  the  heart  of  him  love  them, 

Then  to  sicken  and  grow  grave-cold; 

Fragile  wear  is  the  cloth  of  Beauty — 

Rose  and  sunset  and  girl  of  gold! 


THE    SONG 

1SANG  of  the  sun  on  the  wafers. 
And  then  of  the  wind  in  the  wood; 
And  the  people  hearkened  my  singing 
And  said  that  the  song  was  good. 

I  sang  of  the  sheep  on  the  mountains, 
And  then  of  the  thrush  on  the  hill ; 

And  the  people  hearkened  my  singing 
And  said  it  was  better  still. 

I  sang  of  the  bliss  of  lovers. 
And  then  of  their  hopes  that  fall  ; 

And  the  people  hearkened  my  singing 
And  said  it  was  best  of  all. 

For  the  song  that  is  loved  of  the  people, 
And  sought  since  the  world  began, 

Is  the  sad  and  beautiful  music 
Of  the  loves  and  sorrows  of  Man. 


THE    SECRET    POOL 

I    KNOW  a  pool  unknown  to  men, 
Whose  green  and  shadowed  secrecy 
I  share  alone  with  bird  and  tree, 
And  there,  when  I  am  sick  at  heart 
And  ill  at  case,  I  draw  apart 
To  bathe,  and  live,  and  love  again. 

All  Summertide  and  all  Spring  through, 
In  its  charmed  neighbourhood,  the  thrush 
And  magpie,  in  the  dying  blush 
Of  sunset  and  the  green  of  dawn — 
Now  nigh,  and  now  in  aisles  withdrawn — 
Make  melody,  each  day  anew. 

And  all  night  long  the  curious  stars 
Through  peepholes  in  its  dome  of  leaves 
Peer  down  on  it,  while  Silence  weaves 
A  lovely  spell,  a  magic  calm 
That  soothes  the  soul  like  healing  balm. 
And  breathes  a  peace  that  nothing  mars. 

Ah,  sweet,  indeed,  it  is  to  lave 
And  lose  oneself  within  the  cool, 
Soft  presence  of  that  forest-pool. 
Whose  sacramental  peace  is  such 
That  flesh  and  spirit,  at  its  touch. 
The  sleep  of  little  children  have. 


TWILIGHT    AND    PEACE 

OGREY  and  dewy  Twilight, 
Thou,  who  comest  softly,  bringing 
Silence  sweeter  than  all  music, 

Song  of  bird  or  mortal  singing; 
Thou,  who  walkest  with  thy  shadows 
Through  the  mountains  and  the  meadows, 

Hither  come,  hither  come; 
For  the  morn  was  dull  and  dreary, 
And  the  noon  was  hot  and  weary. 
And  the  hours  that  followed  after 
Were  too  full  of  care  for  laughter. 

And  too  full  of  toil  for  many  and  too  full  of 
tears  for  some. 

O  grey  and  dewy  Twilight, 

There  are  those  within  the  forest 
Who  are  waiting  for  thy  coming 

And  the  potions  that  thou  pourest. 
Bringing  balm  to  feathered  bosom, 
Wilted  leaf  and  withered  blossom — 

Bid  them  sleep,  bid  them  sleep; 
For  their  morn  was  dull  and  dreary. 
And  their  noon  was  hot  and  weary, 
And  the  hours  that  followed  brought  them 
Arid  winds  that  evil  wrought  them. 

For  the  crushing  heat  lay  heavy  on  each  little 
flower  and  breast. 


126  TWILIGHT    AND    PEACE 

O  grey  and  dewy  Twilight, 

There  are  those  in  town  and  city 
Who  are  ailing,  ailing  for  thee; 

For  thou  hast  the  balm  of  pity. 
And  the  cooling  calm  that  lingers 
In  a  mother's  gentle  fingers — 

Soothe  them  so,  soothe  them  so; 
For  their  morn  was  dull  and  dreary. 
And  their  noon  was  hot  and  weary. 
And  the  hours  that  followed  after 
Were  too  full  of  toil  for  laughter. 

And  too  full  of  want  for  many,  and  for  some 
too  full  of  woe. 

O  grey  and  dewy  Twilight, 

There  is  one  thou  dost  resemble; 
And  I  feel  that  'neath  her  footsteps 

Even  now  the  airs  do  tremble. 
And  the  shadows  fly  before  her. 
And  the  silent  stars  bend  o'er  her 

As  she  nears,  as  she  nears — 
Man  and  maid  to  joyance  wooing, 
Doves  in  concert  with  her  cooing. 
Round  about  her  love  and  laughter. 
Golden  plenty  speeding  after, 

And  a  magic  in  her  presence  to  make  sweet 
the  salt  of  tears. 


THE    COUNSELLORS 


A^ 


S  I  went  a-walking 

Through  the  Morning  Land, 
Up  came  Folly 

And  took  me  by  the  hand ; 
Garbed  in  velvet  doublet, 

Clad  in  silken  hose — 
Bells  on  his  droll  cap. 
Bells  on  his  clothes, 
Bells  on  his  shoulders. 
Bells  round  his  waist 
Tinkled  as  he  shouted  : 
'TIaste,  brother,  haste ; 
Youth's  a  thing  that  never  will  be  missed 
Till  it's  gone,  gone  for  ever,  like  the  dew  from  the  rose !' 

Sparkled  all  the  waters. 

Sparkled  everything — 
Dew  on  the  petal, 

Dew  on  the  wing. 
Dew  on  the  meadows, 

Dew  in  the  air. 
Dew  on  the  tall  trees. 

Dew  everywhere. 
Dew  on  the  fine  web. 

Gemming  each  part ; 
Dew  on  the  red  mouth, 

Dew  in  the  heart ; 
Toil's  a  thing  that  never  heart  will  crave 
In  the  sweet,  sweet  morning  and  the  dew-time  rare. 


128  THE    COUNSELLORS 

Song  and  jest  I  gathered 

Strolling  up  and  down, 
Talk  o'  the  tavern 

And  gossip  of  the  town ; 
Storing  in  my  wallet, 

Careless  of  the  throng, 
Coin  of  golden  fancy, 

Coin  of  silver  song. 
Gems  of  jovial  friendship. 

Keepsakes  manifold. 
Pearls  that  never  gem-smith 

Set  in  filmy  gold. 
Wealth's  a  witch  that  loses  half  her  lure, 
When  the  blood  runs  red,  and  the  pulse  beats  strong. 

As  I  went  a-walking 

Through  the  moonlit  land. 
Up  came  Prudence 

And  took  me  by  the  hand ; 
Solemn  was  her  aspect, 

Sober  her  clothes, 
Cruel  her  questions, 
Hinting  chilly  woes : 
"Where  be  you  a-going? 
What  have  you  to  eat? 
Where's  your  wood  and  water? 
Where's  your  bread  and  meat?" 
Youth's  a  thing  that  never  will  be  missed 
Till  it's  gone,  gone  for  ever,  like  the  dew  from  the  rose ! 


AT    THE    TIDE'S    WILL 

WHEN  the  tide  came  surging  in 
To  the  beach  it  bore 
Drift-wood  and  brown  weeds — 
These — and  nothing  more ! 

As  the  stranded  weeds  and  wood 

Borne  by  the  sea, 
Tossed  at  the  wind's  will, 

Evei;i  so  are  we! 

When  the  tide  went  out  again 

From  the  beach,  it  bore 
Drift-wood  and  brown  weeds— 

These — and  nothing  more ! 

Little  peace  is  ours  indeed, 

Little  rest  we  know — 
Weeds  at  the  Tide's  will 

Tossed  to  and  fro ! 


PERFECTION 

THIS  rose,  to  which  each  dawn  anew 
Come  bees  to  fill  their  honey-sacks, 
Though  sweet  in  shape,  and  scent,  and  hue. 
Perfection  lacks. 

To  gain  it  were  to  crown  one's  toil 

And  set  the  very  world  astir : 
Blow,  Rose,  make  most  of  sap  and  soil, 

Strive,  Gardener! 

Though  Youth  may  dwell  some  honeyed  years 

In  Arcady,  most  true  is  this — 
There  is  no  joy  unmixed  with  tears, 

No  perfect  bliss. 

Though  Love,  on  high  adventure  set, 
Complete  achievement  may  not  know — 

Reach  out  your  white  arms,  Juliet ! 
Climb,  Romeo! 


THE    VOICES    OF    THE    RAIN 

LAST  night,  when  under  troubled  skies 
The  storm  went  marching  o'er  the  plain, 
An  elfin  music  seemed  to  rise, 
A  singing  in  the  rain. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  prattling  child 
That  played  alone  in  young  delight, 

And  then  it  seemed  a  joy  gone  wild 
That  sang  along  the  night. 

The  raindrops,  with  their  steady  beat 

And  burden  musical  and  low. 
Were  like  a  thousand  little  feet 

That  hurried  to  and  fro. 

And  where  the  runnels  gushed  and  streamed 
And  soaked  the  grass-roots,  dry  and  brown, 

A  busy  band  of  fairies  seemed 
To  patter  up  and  down. 

The  air  was  full  of  whisperings. 
And  all  the  teeming  dark  was  rife 

With  stir  and  call  that  told  of  things 
That  woke  anew  to  life. 


132  THE    VOICES    OF    THE    RAIN 

And  then  across  the  darkened  waste 
A  sudden  shouting  wind  was  hurled; 

It  seemed  a  messenger  in  haste 
With  tidings  for  the  world. 

But,  till  across  that  streaming  scene 
The  wind  went  rushing  down  the  plain, 

I  did  not  guess  what  they  might  mean — 
Those  voices  of  the  rain. 

They  said :  "Farewell  to  drought  and  dearth, 
To  Famine,  hollow-eyed  and  nude!" 

They  said :  "We  are.  the  teeming  Earth, 
The  gift  of  plenitude !" 

They  said,  those  voices  of  the  rain: 

"We  are  the  flesh  and  blood  and  breath ; 

We  are  the  meat,  the  fruit,  the  grain 
That  succour  all  from  death !" 

They  said :  "Wherever  we  may  pass 
The  hour  of  plenty  comes  to  birth ; 

We  spread  the  banquet  of  the  grass 
Around  about  the  Earth! 


THE    VOICES    OF    THE    RAIN  133 

*We  call,"  they  said,  "and  lo,  the  seed 

Within  its  mother-soil  is  stirred ; 
The  seasons  round  'tis  ours  to  feed 

The  fruit,  the  tree,  the  bird. 

'By  us  the  petal  is  unfurled, 

The  flower  in  purple  splendour  blooms  ; 
We  fill  the  markets  of  the  world, 

And  feed  its  hungry  looms." 

The  moon  sent  forth  one  silver  ray. 

The  fairy  voices  ceased  to  sing; 
Yet  far  away,  and  far  away, 

I  heard  thanks  echoing. 

For  cattle  lowed  throughout  the  night 

In  deep  content  across  the  plain; 
And  I,  too,  thanked,  with  meet  delight. 

The  voices  of  the  rain. 


NOON  ON  THE  BARRIER  RANGES 

THE  saltbush  steeped  in  drowsy  stillness  lies, 
The  mulga  seems  to  swoon, 
A  hawk  hangs  poised  within  the  burning  skies, 
And  it  is  noon. 

The  river-gums,  their  leaf-pores  closed,  distil 

No  fresh  and  cooling  breath ; 
I  stand  upon  an  old  hard-bitten  hill, 

Wide  plains  beneath. 

Here  stood  tall  mountains  when  the  world  was  young, 

Their  peaks  uplifted  high; 
Here  was  the  song  of  many  waters  sung 

In  days  gone  by. 

The  monarch  Change,  whose  will  no  power  withstands 

Vast  lord  of  might 
At  work  by  night  and  day,  with  tireless  hands 

Planed  down  their  height. 

With  such  to  see,  and  seeing  ponder  on. 

Such  mighty  ruin  wrought, 
Why  should  we  wonder  at  proud  Babylon 

Brought  down  to  nought? 


NOON    ON    THE    BARRIER    RANGES  135 

Be  not  amazed,  though  princes  be  displaced 

And  kingdoms  overcast ; 
Are  empires  more  than  mountains,  basalt-based, 

That  they  should  last  ? 

A  sense  of  things  unreal,  seen  in  dream. 

Is  over  plain  and  heights — 
The  time-worn  rocks,  the  crumbled  earth,  the  gleam 

Of  mirage  lights ; 

The  horseman  riding  with  a  slackened  rein 

Alone,  a  silent  man; 
The  weird,  dust-sprites  that  whirl  across  the  plain 

A  little  span ; 

The  earth-hued  lizard,  on  the  sun-baked  rock 

Stretched  out  in  stirless  sleep; 
The  far-off  drover  and  his  dusty  flock 

Of  travelling  sheep ; 

The  hidden  birds  that  break  the  hush,  and  call, 

And  sink  again  to  rest. 
The  dust-storm,  hanging,  like  a  crimson  shawl, 

Within  the  west ; 


136  NOON    ON    THE    BARRIER    RANGES 

The  white  quartz  glittering  on  the  umber  track, 
The  claypans  cracked  and  bare ; 

The  poised  hawk,  hanging  like  a  menace  black 
In  middle  air ; 

The  wonder  of  the  spacious  plain  and  sky, 

The  splendour  of  it  all ; 
The  all  that  is  not  I — so  wide,  so  high, 

And  I  so  small ! 

The  sun  swings  on,  and  up  the  western  verge 
The  great  shawl-cloud  spreads  wide. 

Till  sky  and  plain  in  oneness  meet  and  merge, 
Fierce-lit,  red-dyed. 

A  wind,  hell-hot  and  surged  with  fury,  whips 

The  trees  upon  its  path. 
And  all  is  sudden  turmoil  and  eclipse, 

And  cries  of  wrath. 

A  choking  darkness  draws  across  the  sun 
And  clouds  his  splendour  o'er, 

And  though  but  half  his  pilgrimage  be  done, 
*Tis  noon  no  more 


GOD'S    ANSWER 

BANNISTER,  who  lived  for  gain, 
Counting  love  and  mateship  weak, 
Bannister  of  Coolah  Creek 
Once,  and  once  alone,  'tis  said, 
Bent  his  knees  and  bowed  his  head. 
Praying  God  to  send  him  rain. 

Sheep  and  cattle  were  to  him 

Pounds  and  pence  in  wool  and  hide — 
That,  and  nothing  more  beside ; 
Gain,  and  gain  alone,  he  sought — 
Bought  and  sold,  and  sold  and  bought- 

Bannister,  the  shrewd  and  grim ! 

Drought  might  slay  his  neighbour's  sheep. 
Leave  his  friends  with  stricken  lands, 
Starving  stock  and  empty  hands. 
Driving  them  to  ruin's  brink ; 
Not  by  so  much  as  a  wink 

Did  it  cause  him  loss  of  sleep. 

Loving  neither  man  nor  maid, 
Man  and  maid  no  pity  showed 
When  the  Drought,  red-handed,  strode 
Through  the  land,  and  spared  him  not ; 
Then  it  was,  by  all  forgot, 

Bannister  knelt  down  and  prayed. 


138  GOD'S    ANSWER 

Hands  entreatingly  out-thrown, 

Head  and  shoulders  bowed  with  care, 
Bannister  sent  up  his  prayer; 
Did  that  prayer  include  a  friend? 
Nay;  but  selfish  to  the  end 

For  himself  he  prayed  alone. 

Scarce  a  stone's-throw  from  his  door 
Coolah  Creek,  dry-bedded,  lay 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day 
Staring  skyward,  stark  and  dumb; 
In  its  single  river-gum 

Sang  the  shepherd-bird  no  more. 

Praying  long  and  low,  there  ran 
Through  his  mind  a  vision  sweet — 
Waters  singing  at  his  feet; 
And  his  words  a  torrent  poured: 
"Open  Thou  Thy  floodgates.  Lord, 

Lest  I  be  a  ruined  man!" 

Then  he  rose  and  sought  his  bed, 
Sighing  as  he  sank  to  sleep. 
While,  without,  his  famished  sheep 
In  the  darkness  moaned  their  woe, 
And  his  cattle,  lowing  low. 

Sagged  with  droop  of  eye  and  head. 


GOD'S    ANSWER        ,  139 

Dreams  were  his  with  splendour  lit, 

Happy  dreams  of  days  to  be: 

While  his  prayer  limped  leadenly 

Through  cold  spaces,  drear  and  lone, 

Till,  at  last,  it  reached  God's  throne, 
And  God,  bending,  answered  it. 

Hot  and  still  the  darkness  was. 

Hushed  and  hot  the  midnight  air. 

Drought  and  death  were  everywhere. 

Thirst  and  hunger,  pain  and  grief : 

Stirless  hung  the  wilted  leaf, 
Motionless  the  brittle  grass. 

Mercy,  pity  seemed  aloof, 

God  remote  and  cold  to  man, 

When  a  whispering  began — 

And  the  sleeper  woke  to  hear. 

Low  at  first,  then  loud  and  clear, 
Raindrops  drumming  on  his  roof.  , 

Little  things  began  to  stir. 

Little  voices  filled  the  night — 

Whispers,  murmurings  of  delight. 

Till  the  torrent  drowned  them  all 

In  the  thunder  of  its  fall  .  .  . 
God  had  answered  Bannister! 


140  ^  GOD'S    ANSWER 

Thinking  thus  his  troubles  o'er, 
Pleased  with  God,  he  slept  again; 
Bannister,  unloved  of  men. 
Loved  of  God  most  surely  seemed. 
Coolah  Creek,  awakened,  streamed 

Scarce  a  stone's-throw  from  his  door. 

Dreaming  dreams  of  gain  anew. 
Bannister  reposed  at  ease, 
Hearing  but  sweet  melodies, 
Free  of  loss  and  free  of  pain. 
Gorged  and  swollen  by  the  rain, 

Coolah  Creek  a  giant  grew. 

Foam  upon  its  torrent  swept, 

Leaf  and  limb  went  down  its  flood  ; 
Like  a  beast  athirst  for  blood 
Through  the  dark  it  ramped  and  raged ; 
Like  a  lion  long  encaged, 

Free  at  last,  it  roared  and  leapt ; 

Then  it  burst  its  banks,  and  broke 
Bar  and  barrier  in  its  path 
Shouting,  foaming  in  its  wrath  .  .  . 
Dreaming  dreams  of  golden  gain, 
Hides  and  tallow,  wool  and  grain. 

Bannister  too  late  awoke. 


GOD'S     ANSWER  I4t 


Never  more  to  speak  and  stir, 
Never  more  to  strive  and  hoard- 
Self,  and  self  alone,  his  lord — 
Veins  no  more  with  life  aglow, 
Body  washing  to  and  fro — 

God  had  answered  Bannister! 


IN     SEPTEMBER 

IN  wood-hollows  mate  the  swallows, 
On  the  house-tops  sparrows  marry; 
Where's  the  laggard  that  would  tarry 
When  the  Spring  is  up  and  doing, 
And  the  doves  of  Love  are  cooing? 


O  the  lovers  she  discovers 
Heart  and  heart  together  linking! 
'Tis  of  them,  perchance,  you're  thinking; 
In  this  moment's  rich  completeness 
Tasting  over  bygone  sweetness. 


Nay,  you  gladden  not,  but  sadden 
At  the  sight  of  such  surrender 
To  Love's  impulse,  warm  and  tender. 
As  yon  couple,  mingling  kisses, 
Show — nor  dream  that  aught  amiss  is. 


Who  supposes  summer  roses — 
When  the  bee  no  longer  settles 
On  their  satin-surfaced  petals. 
Young  no  more,  nor  sweet,  nor  tender, — 
View  with  scorn  their  pirate's  splendour ! 


IN     SEPTEMBER  143 

I  remember  one  September, 
Light  as  thistledown  or  feather, 
Long  with  love  we  strayed  together. 
Careless  of  wise  word  or  censure, 
On  a  quest  of  sweet  adventure. 

Why  and  wherefore  blame  them,  therefore? 
Puppets  they — yon  pretty  couple — 
He  so  strong  and  she  so  supple, 
Dancing  fast,  and  fast,  and  faster 
At  the  will  of  Love,  their  master! 

Little  woman.  Love  is  human, 
Fickle  too,  and  there's  the  pity; 
Never  yet  was  wench  so  witty. 
King  so  strong,  or  knave  so  clever 
As  to  make  him  theirs  for  ever. 


Though  September  blows  no  ember 
Into  flame  for  you  this  season, 
Yet  'tis  neither  rhyme  nor  reason 
Thus  to  scoff,  with  chilly  phrases. 
At  the  flames  that  she  upraises. 


BEQUEATHAL 

THE  night-birds  cry  in  the  bush  outside, 
And  I  write  here,  though  the  hour  be  late ; 
And  what  shall  I  write  of  the  man  who  died  ? 
"He  gave  his  gold  to  the  poor  at  his  gate !" 

The  line  is  written.    Was  that  his  all. 
And  did  that  all  exhaust  his  love? 
"Nay,  nay,  write  on,  while  the  night-birds  call : 
*He  gave  his  soul  to  his  God  above' !" 

Say  on;  for  in  so  rich  a  vein 

More  gold  lay  waiting  to  be  proved. 
'  'Twas  so !    Write  this,  and  write  it  plain : 
'He  gave  his  heart  to  the  wife  he  loved' !" 

What  more  ?    "What  more  dost  thou  require  ? 

What  more  was  left  to  give  or  take? 
Yet  more  there  was.     Write  this  in  fire : 

*He  gave  his  life  for  his  country's  sake* !" 

"Last  gift  of  all,  with  courage  fine, 

Though  far  from  stars  that  watched  his  birth. 
He  fell.     Write  then  this  final  line : 

*He  gave  his  clay  to  the  aliens'  ,earth*  !" 


THE    YEAR'S    END 

THE  voices  of  the  wind  and  wave 
They  sigh  the  Old  Year's  requiem ; 
The  dead  are  calling  from  the  grave — 
Good  friends,  a  little  space  I  crave 
To  turn  aside  and  think  of  them. 

They  were  as  even  you  and  I 

When  you  and  I  were  young  as  they ; 
And  yet  they  knew  the  way  to  die — 
Come,  think  with  me,  and  tell  me  why 
It  should  be  thus  with  hearts  so  gay. 

Ah,  blessed  be  the  gracious  God 

Who,  moulding  us  from  clay  and  dew, 
From  morning  dew  and  clay  untrod, 
So  breathed  Himself  into  the  sod 
That  we,  at  best,  grow  Godlike,  too. 

For,  treading  pleasure  underneath. 

These  glory-souls,  our  country's  flower, 
Arose  responsive  to  that  breath 
And  looked  into  the  face  of  Death, 
And  did  not  tremble  at  his  power. 


146  THE    YEAR'S     END 

Should  it  not  make  us  sure  and  tough 

As  tested  steel,  and  unafraid, 
To  feel,  though  Fate  ride  robber-rough, 
That  we  are  fashioned  of  the  stuff 
Whereof  these  heroes,  too,  were  made? 

Though  they  are  dead,  and  o'er  them  bends 

A  people's  soul  in  mourning  mood, 
Proud  Honour  at  their  grave  attends : 
Henceforth  we  are  a  nation,  friends, 

By  right  of  sacrificial  blood. 

« 

The  care-free  days  of  youth  are  gone ; 

What  once  we  were  no  more  we  are; 
And  dead  are  all  the  dreams  that  shone 
Ere  we  were  bruised  and  hammered  on 

The  ringing  anvils  of  red  war. 

The  Spirit  of  Immortal  Times, 
With  lights  that  dazzle  and  entice, 

Is  vitalizing  all  earth's  climes; 

Once  more  in  golden  tones  it  chimes 
The  anthem  of  High  Sacrifice. 


THE    YEAR'S     END  147 

And  yet,  though  Fame  be  very  fair, 

And  great  the  yearning  and  desire 
Of  hero-hearts  to  do  and  dare. 
Behold,  there  stands  an  empty  chair 

Beside  a  cold  and  ashen  fire! 


Because,  as  even  you  and  I, 

They  loved  and  were  beloved,  my  friends. 
Not  all  the  glory-stars  on  high. 
The  splendid  things  for  which  men  die. 

Can  for  their  passing  make  amends. 


There  is  a  house  that  waits  in  vain 
To  give  them  entrance  at  its  door, 

When  frost's  afoot  or  chilly  rain; 

There  is  a  track  across  the  plain 
That  they,  alas,  shall  ride  no  more. 

A  whip,  a  saddle,  and  a  spur! 

(Ah,  love-lit  rides!    The  moon  above. 
Sweet  scents  around,  soft  winds  astir!) 
God  give  him  rest!    And  what  of  her? 

Why  ask?    Is  love  not  always  love? 


148  THE     YEAR'S     END 

Dear  eyes  that  pain  has  made  divine, 

Sad  eyes  that  burn  with  tears  unshed, 
Within  whose  depths  are  griefs  that  pine 
And  pilgrim  thoughts  that  seek  the  shrine, 
The  grave  of  their  beloved  dead; 

Dear  eyes,  dear  hearts,  dear  folk,  tear-blind. 

Who  greet  each  morn  with  grief  anew, 
Pale  cheeks  grown  cold,  and  foreheads  lined, — 
Since  God  is  good  and  Heaven  is  kind. 
There  shall  be  recompense  for  you! 

The  Old  Year  dies ;  and  o'er  the  waves. 
Wind-borne,  there  comes  a  requiem 
Deep-chanted  by  a  sea  that  laves 
The  shores  they  loved.    Oh,  may  their  graves 
Give  goodly  rest  and  peace  to  them ! 


BY    MOMBA    TRACKS 

THE  hearts  of  the  everlasting-flowers 
Shall  steal  the  gold  o'  the  sun 
When  the  winter  rains  have  done  their  work 

And  the  winter  days  are  done, 
And  the  desert  pea  shall  hue  the  rocks 
By  the  tracks  of  Momba  run. 

The  dew  shall  gleam  on  the  silken  webs 
That  the  night-time  spider  weaves, 

And  scatter  its  gems  on  the  saltbush  plains 
And  drip  from  the  homestead  eaves, 

And  the  quandong  fruit  take  ruddy  fire 
In  the  green  of  the  quandong  leaves. 

The  bees  shall  saunter  from  bloom  to  bloom 

And  burthen  their  honey-sacs; 
And  the  drovers  ride  in  the  sunset  light 

On  the  long,  long  winding  tracks ; 
But  never  a  man  shall  pause  to  pray 

By  the  graves  of  the  Barrier  blacks. 

Deep  dug  they  lie  in  the  mulga  scrub, 
These  graves  of  a  dwindling  race, 

Stone-piled  and  bare,  where  the  windy  noons 
Swift  lights  and  shadows  trace! 

And  the  lone,  heaped  mound  is  the  only  sign 
Of  a  dead  man's  burial-place. 


150  BY     MOMBA    TRACKS 

They  passed  away  like  a  feeble  flame 
Before  the  white  man's  breath 

(Wherever  the  white  man  sets  his  feet 
The  white  man  comes  with  death)  : 

And  they  lie  deep-celled  in  the  moisty  mould, 
And  the  wind  their  requiem  saith. 


THE    TURN    OF    THE    ROAD 

WHERE  confident,  calm  I  strode, 
I  walk  with  hesitant  feet ; 
For  at  yonder  turn  of  the  road 
What  shall  I  meet? 

The  youth  of  the  day  has  gone. 
And  my  shadow  goes  before ; 

I  know  that  the  road  runs  on — 
I  know  no  more. 

I  have  travelled  a  goodly  way, 
As  one  at  a  glance  may  see. 

Since  the  East  and  the  break  o'  day 
Called  out  to  me. 

Though  the  highway  be  hard  to  miss 
With  its  signs  and  stones  and  such. 

The  worst  of  the  road  is  this — 
It  turns  too  much. 

For  a  part  of  its  length  it  flows 

(Too  brief  is  that  stretch,  alas!) 
Twixt  hedges  of  palm  and  rose. 
O'er  fern  and  grass. 


152  THE  TURN  OF  THE  ROAD 

The  butterfly  fancies  flit 

On  their  lit  wings,  gossamer-frail; 
And  a  host  of  roysterers  sit 

At  cakes  and  ale. 


With  the  flight  of  their  glory  hour, 
The  Fancies  flutter  and  die; 

And  the  nectared  heart  of  the  flower 
Grows  sere  and  dry. 

Though  the  cakes  and  ale  are  done, 
And  the  roysterer's  moment  gone, 

Yet  under  the  slanting  sun 
The  road  winds  on. 

Good-bye  to  the  flower  and  fern. 
And  the  hedges  at  each  grass-side  !- 

Maybe  at  the  next  road-turn 
New  pleasures  hide. 

New  pleasures?    *Tis  turned,  and  lo! 

Hot  miles  and  a  driving  dust 
'Twixt  trees  that  are  grey  as  woe. 

Gnarled  limbs  out-thrust ! 


THE     TURN     OF    THE     ROAD  153 

Yet  Hope  is  a  bright  allure, 

A  light  in  the  hearts  of  men — 
At  the  end  of  a  league,  for  sure, 

'Twill  turn  again. 

Though  the  highway  be  hard  to  miss 
With  its  signs  and  stones  and  such, 

The  best  of  the  road  is  this — 
It  turns  so  much ! 

Towards  the  turn  of  the  roadway  yon 

I  walk  with  hesitant  feet  ; 
When  T  come  to  the  turn,  anon — 

What  shall  I  meet  ? 


GARDEN    STREET 

LONG  and  drowsy  and  white  and  wide, 
Villas  and  arbours  on  either  side, 
Pleasant  under  the  cloudless  skies, 
Garden  Street  in  the  sunlight  lies. 

Twice  a  day — at  the  morning  hour, 
And  again  when  the  lights  of  sunset  flower- 
Its  pavements  ring  to  the  footfall-noise 
Of  men  and  women,  and  girls  and  boys. 

Townward,  sprightly  of  foot,  they  go; 
Home  they  come  in  the  evening  glow. 
Labours  over  and  questing  done — 
Some  with  money  and  some  with  none. 

Most  hours  through,  from  morn  to  night, 
It  dreams  and  dreams  in  the  drowsy  light : 
No  call  is  there  of  the  huckster-clan, 
Of  the  bottle-oh  and  the  rabbit-man. 

Wafted  odours  of  nameless  flowers 
Perfume  the  march  of  the  golden  hours ; 
Under  the  laurels,  cooling  the  eye, 
Pools  of  shade  in  the  sunshine  lie. 


GARDEN     STREET  155 

All  day  long,  and  night-long  too, 
Sunlight-sweetened  or  washed  by  dew, 
Leaf  and  petal  and  fern  and  palm 
Open  their  lungs,  out-breathing  balm. 

Now  the  cooing  of  doves  is  heard. 
Now  the  song  of  a  single  bird ; 
Beetles  drone,  and  the  murmuring  bees 
Make  their  round  of  the  flowers  and  trees. 


Echoes  alone  of  the  trouble  and  strife. 
Stir  and  flurry  and  noise  of  life — 
Hints  alone  of  its  fever  and  heat 
Steal  through  the  quiet  of  Garden  Street. 

Traffic  and  Trade  with  eyes  awry 
Seek  the  city,  and  pass  it  by ; 
Few  daylong  through  its  distance  wend 
With  money  to  make  or  money  to  spend. 

Yet  yesterday,  when  the  moon  was  sped, 
Up  and  down,  with  a  furtive  tread, 
Lounged  a  rogue  with  a  wistful  smile, 
Whistling  a  jig  on  the  wind  the  while. 


356  GARDEN     STREET 

Twice  or  thrice  in  the  stirless  trance 
Stilling  his  feet,  he  paused  to  glance 
Over  the  way  to  the  vine-clad  gate 
Where  the  laurels  droop  and  the  poppies  wait. 

Rogue  and  robber  and  fool,  I  swear — 
Love  was  the  plunder  that  brought  him  there 
Love  that  laughed  through  a  curtain  of  green. 
Watching  his  tricks  the  while,  I  ween. 

Rogue  and  robber,  he  went  away 
Sour  and  sick  at  the  end  of  day. 
Empty  of  hope  and  sad  to  see; 
For  bolt  and  bar  on  her  heart  had  she. 

She  who  lives  in  the  Doric  house, 
Secret  and  shy  as  a  little  mouse. 
Dainty  and  dear  from  head  to  feet — 
Pansy.  Princess  of  Garden  Street! 


THE    DROVER    OF    THE    STARS 

IT  is  little  I  care  for  earth's  kings, 
Its  emperors,  sultans  and  czars, 
As  I  lie  in  the  darkness  and  dream 
All  alone  with  my  sheep  and  the  stars. 

For  as  dust  of  the  moment  are  they, 

Now  agleam  and  now  still  on  earth's  breast 

But  the  stars,  spreading  wide  in  the  night. 
Travel  on,  ever  on  to  the  west. 

My  sheep,  snugly  camped  in  the  dark. 
Misty-white  with  the  pale  grasses  blend; 

But  where  is  the  camp  of  the  stars? 
And  whither,  O  Night,  do  they  wend? 

Through  leagues  of  dry  distance  we  came. 

Where  dust-wreaths,  wind-woven,  upcurled. 
Since  Dawn  dropped  the  rails  of  the  east 
•And  let  the  Day  into  our  world. 

Slow-moving  we  travelled  the  plains, 
Trudging  on  through  the  sun  and  the  wind, 

Till  Day  galloped  out  of  the  west. 
And  Night  set  the  sliprails  behind. 


158  THE    DROVER    OF    THE    STARS 

And  now,  by  my  camp-fire  alone, 
A  tryst  with  pale  Wonder  I  keep — 

That  mystical  Lady  of  Dreams, 
Whose  hour  is  the  sleep-of-the-sheep. 

Foot-tired  in  the  grasses  they  lie. 

Mist-pale  in  the  darkness,  and  dumb; 

Yet  who  was  it  mustered  the  stars, 

And  whence  and  what  leagues  have  they  come  ? 

Who  keeps  them  from  straying  apart? 

Who  urges  them  straight  on  their  route? 
No  answer — ^none  tell  me ;  and  lo ! 

The  Night,  though  it  listen,  is  mute! 

Watch  'neath  the  stars  of  the  Cross, 

Orion,  and  Venus  and  Mars; 
I  am  but  a  drover  of  sheep — 

But  who  is  the  Drover  of  Stars? 


JUST    TO    DRIFT 

DRIFTING  down  the  Harbour, 
Stars  on  high, 
Lovers  of  the  surface. 

You  and  I, 
Let  us  never  pry  and  wonder 
At  the  things  that  lie  thereunder. 

Underneath  the  surface 

Silver-fair, 
Let  us  never  question 

What  lies  there; 
Lest  we  lose,  like  some  robbed  miser. 
All  our  treasure,  growing  wiser. 

Lo,  it  has  the  beauty 

Of  a  flower! 
Is  it  not  sufficient 

For  the  hour 
Just  to  drift  as  mists  are  drifted, 
Depths  unplumbed  and  veils  unlifted  ? 

Where's  the  flawless  jewel. 

Stainless  breast? 
Where's  the  Love  that  answers 

Every  test? 
Where's  the  past  that's  altogether 
Cloudless  as  this  radiant  weather? 


160  JUST    TO     DRIFT 

Drifting  down  the  Harbour 

On  the  tide, 
Careless  of  all  knowledge, 

Let  us  glide, 
Heedless  of  what  Life  discovers, 
Save  that  you  and  I  are  lovers. 


AFTER    DRAFTING 

NIGHT  has  fallen,  night  and  darkness, 
Night  with  star  and  planet  splendid ; 
And  the  earth  lies  like  a  giant 

Wrapt  in  sleep,  with  limbs  extended. 

Rest  has  stolen  on  the  homestead, 
On  the  long  day's  rush  and  riot. 

And  no  sound  of  horse  or  rider 
Breaks  the  soft  and  dewy  quiet. 

Yet,  like  heart-cries 

After  battle, 
Comes  the  calling,  ceaseless  calling, 

Of  the  dun  and  dappled  cattle. 

Sleep  is  sweet,  and  sweet  is  silence, 
When  the  long  day's  work  is  over. 

For  the  toiler  and  the  moiler. 
And  the  rider  and  the  rover. 

Not  a  breeze  abroad  at  night-time 
Sets  the  barley-grass  aquiver. 

And  from  dew  fall  on  to  sunrise 
Sleeps  the  curlew  by  the  river. 


162  AFTER     DRAFTING 

Yet  no  slumber 

Anguish  smothers; 
Hark  the  calling,  plaintive  calling, 

Of  the  robbed  and  stricken  mothers! 

Oh,  how  still  are  plain  and  river — 
How  all-sweet,  how  all-amazing ! 

By  the  stars'  march  night  is  numbered- 
Rising,  setting,  zenith-blazing. 

Peace  has  come  upon  the  homestead; 

Passed  the  long  day's  rush  and  riot ; 
Only  from  the  drafted  cattle 

Comes  a  note  of  sad  disquiet: 

Dun  and  dappled, 

Horned  and  poley — 
They  are  lowing,  lozvly  lowing, 

With  a  helpless  melancholy. 


"THEY     SHALL     COME     HOME" 

ALTHOUGH  they  sleep  in  alien  graves  afar, 
Where,  restlessly,  chill  winds  we  know  not  roam, 
When  Peace  has  laid  the  cruel  waves  of  war 
They  shall  come  home! 

Their  spirit  cannot  die,  though  they  be  dead, 

The  young,  the  brave,  the  noble,  and  the  dear ! 
And  we  shall  know  by  some  sweet  influence  shed 
That  they  are  near. 

Because  of  them  we  shall  go  unafraid 

And  front  the  Future,  strong  and  valorous; 
They  shall  come  home,  when  most  we  need  their  aid, 
And  hearten  us. 

What  soul  we  owned  we  knew  not  till  they  died ; 

Upon  high  nationhood  they  set  the  seal ; 
The  crude  ore  taken  from  the  mountainside 
They  wrought  to  steel. 

What  though  they  passed  in  all  their  pride  and  power 

With  steadfast  tread  adown  the  sunset-track 
To  Glory*s  gates? — in  memory's  hallowed  hour 
They  shall  come  back. 


164  "THEY     SHALL     COME     HOME" 

And  they  shall  give,  in  place  of  heart-distress, 
To  kith  and  kin,  tear-worn  and  sorrowing  sore, 
A  sense  of  reverence  and  of  sacredness 
Not  known  before. 

What  though  they  sleep  in  unfamiliar  earth, 

Where,  restlessly,  chill  winds  we  know  not  roam, 
To  stir  our  blood  to  deeds  of  starry  worth 
They  shall  come  home! 


THE    RIVER    AND    THE     ROAD 

THE  merrymaking's  over 
The  riverside  is  still, 
The  Sun,  a  radiant  rover. 
Gone  down  behind  the  hill. 

The  red  Road  goes  awinding 

Along  the  riverside ; 
The  River,  no  man  minding. 

Winds  on  to  meet  the  tide. 

O  Naiad  of  green  places ! 

I  pray  you  pause  and  say 
How  many  pretty  faces 

Looked  down  on  you  to-day? 

The  River  runs  in  silence 
(A  fern-frond  is  her  load)  ; 

Just  here  and  just  a  mile  hence 
She  curves  to  kiss  the  road. 

And  now  the  kiss  is  over. 
And  now  the  tryst  is  done. 

By  flats  of  fern  and  clover 
The  River  ripples  on. 


166  THE     RIVER    AND     THE     ROAD 

Again  the  Road  turns  to  her, 
Red-winding  through  the  green ; 

The  Road  would  pause  and  woo  her, 
But  gray  rocks  stand  between. 

And  here  he  rounds  a  boulder 
And  hurries  to  her  side: 

The  River  turns  her  shoulder; 
She  will  not  be  his  bride. 


O  fickle  River,  straying 

Through  green  lands  on  and  on, 
A  fern-tree  heard  you  saying 

"The  Road  will  come  anon." 


Not  so,  but  you  will  waken 
To  lonely  days  and  sore. 

The  Road  a  vow  has  taken 
To  play  Love's  fool  no  more. 

On  high  the  sunset  lingers 
With  one  still  star  above. 

And  there  the  merry  singers 
Sing  silverly  of  Love. 


THE    RIVER    AND    THE    ROAD  '  167 

And  now  in  distance  dewy 

They  halt  awhile,  and  so 
Wave  hands  with  "Coo-ee,  Coo-ee !" 

Ho,  laggard  down  below!" 

If  she  should  cease  to  worry 
And  say,  "I  love  but  you" — 
"O  hurry,  hurry,  hurry!" 

And  "Adieu,  Adieu,  Adieu!" 

This  one  last  chance  I  give  her 

To  lighten  my  heart's  load, 
And  if  she  play  the  River 

Then  I  shall  prove  the  Road. 

I  caught  her,  heard  her  sighing. 

And  felt  the  moment's  charm  .... 

'Tis  sweet  when  day  is  dying 
To  walk  so,  arm  in  arm! 


THE     RED-TRESSED     MAIDEN 

RED  she  is  in  a  robe  of  sable, 
Rosy  with  pictures  and  tales  to  tell : 
She  is  a  fairy,  and  yet  no  fable, 

Weaving  the  dreams  that  we  love  so  well. 

Out  in  the  dark  where  the  night-winds  hurry 
And  dead  leaves  carpet  the  silent  bush, 

She  has  a  charm  for  minds  that  worry, 

For  the  worn  white  face  a  fresh  young  blush. 

Tell  her  a  story  of  some  love  laid  in 

The  grave  long  since  with  a  maiden  white — 

She  will  not  taunt  you,  the  Red-Tressed  Maiden 
Dressed  in  her  mantle  of  starless  night. 

With  fingers  potent  as  rich  wine  chosen 
From  dusty  cellars  where  years  lie  dead, 

She  melts  the  ice  in  the  veins  long  frozen. 
The  blood  runs  chainless,  and  young  and  red. 

Her  ears  have  hearkened  the  joyous  laughter, 
Man-made,  maid-lifted  through  years  and  years 

To  frescoed  dome  and  to  smoky  rafter, 
And  tears  and  tears  and  ceaseless  tears. 

Old  as  the  world,  and  some  say  older. 
Is  she,  and  yet  she  is  young  and  sweet: 


THE     RED-TRESSED     MAIDEN  169 

She  heard  the  story  the  Cave-man  told  her, 
When  hearts  were  bolder  and  ruder  their  beat. 

No  tale  so  trifling  but  she  will  listen, 

The  long  day  ended,  the  day's  toil  done ; 
Then  wheresoever  her  great  eyes  glisten 

An  ancient  battle  is  fought  and  won. 

She  is  ready  to  hearken  to  some  chance  roamer, 
A  lyre  on  his  shoulder,  a  lilt  on  his  tongue, 

As  she  was  of  old  to  the  blind-eyed  Homer 

Who  sang  high  strains  when  the  world  was  young. 

On  winter  nights,  when  the  roads  are  cheerless 

And  west  winds  under  a  frosty  moon, 
She  paints  us  Summer  in  colours  peerless 

And  the  broad  gold  charm  of  a  tropic  noon. 

On  summer  evenings,  in  sylvan  places 

(The  picnic  over  and  stars  in  the  skies). 
She  heightens  the  blush  on  sun-kissed  faces 

And  deepens  the  dream  in  dear  young  eyes. 

And  who  is  the  Maiden?    When  Night  is  about  you. 
Pile  high  dry  leaves  and  dead  wood,  and  so 

Make  a  light  for  the  darkness  within  and  without  you  .  .  . 
And  now  do  you  see  her — and  now  do  you  know  ? 


TWO    PICTURES 

WE  sat  by  an  open  window 
And  hearkened  the  sounds  outside— 
The  call  of  a  lonely  night-bird, 
And  the  croon  of  a  making  tide. 

He  was  an  island-trader, 

And  talked  of  his  sunlit  home. 

Of  the  palms  and  the  happy  people. 
And  reef  and  beach  and  foam. 

All  that  the  trader  told  me 

Was  wine  to  my  soul  and  balm ; 

And  I  longed  for  the  moonlit  beaches 
And  the  coral  and  the  palm. 

He  was  browned  with  the  sun  and  weather 
(How  changed  in  mood  and  mien 

From  the  days  when  the  dark-eyed  woman 
Was  throned  in  his  heart  a  queen!) 

He  talked  of  the  merry-makers, 
Of  the  flower-crowned  native  girls ; 

Their  eyes  with  the  lure  of  midnight, 
And  their  teeth  like  island  pearls. 


TWO     PICTURES  171 

No  word  of  the  dark-eyed  woman — 

But  dance  and  song  and  dish, 
The  white  of  the  branching  coral, 

The  hues  of  the  rainbow  fish ; 

Gossip  of  sport  and  battle 

For  love  and  faith  and  truth, 
But  never  a  word  of  the  woman 

He  loved  in  his  careless  youth. 

The  tide  on  the  rocks  was  crooning 

(Sole  sound),  the  bird  was  still; 
And  the  night  lay  hot  and  breathless 

On  rock  and  tree  and  hill. 


Two  pictures  were  limned  in  the  darkness- 
(And  sad,  O  sad,  was  the  tide!) 

A  home  in  a  sunlit  island, 
A  grave  on  a  green  hillside. 


AFTER    CATTLE 

WE  lit  a  fire,  and  straightway  camped, 
And  all  night  long 
We  heard  the  river  sing  its  song. 

Our  horses  fed,  and  neighed,  and  stamped; 

But  else,  o'er  all 

A  haunted  silence  seemed  to  fall. 

The  gum-trees  raised  their  lofty  crests 

So  high,  it  seemed 

They  mingled  with  the  stars  and  dreamed. 

As  when  a  tired  bird  sinks  and  rests 

At  end  of  day, 

Head  couched  on  arm,  full  length  we  lay. 

But  Nature  would  not  let  us  sleep; 

She  loved  so  well 

To  talk,  and  had  such  things  to  tell. 

Her  fire-fly  lamps  within  the  deep 

Green  gullies  shone 

One  moment,  and  the  next  were  gone. 


AFTER    CATTLE  173 

The  smooth  white  trunks  of  ancient  trees 

In  stately  pride 

Marched  up  the  rugged  mountain  side. 


No  leaf  fell  fluttering  on  the  breeze; 

But  everywhere 

A  stillness  charmed  the  midnight  air. 

And  as  we  lay  without  a  word, 

In  silence  camped, 

Our  horses  in  the  darkness  stamped. 

At  first,  it  seemed  a  timid  bird 

Sang  soft  below, 

And  then  ...  we  listened,  breathing  low. 

We  heard,  elusive,  strange,  and  shy, 

A  song  arise — 

The  river  voicing  many  cries. 

At  first,  it  was  a  human  cry 

Of  sad  unrest. 

Of  one  cast  down  and  sore  distressed. 


174  AFTER    CATTLE 

And  then,  an  elfin  chant  it  raised, 
As  when  men  cry 
"We've  silks  to  sell ;  who'll  buy,  who'll  buy  ?" 

And  goods  were  cried  and  wares  were  praised ; 

It  seemed  like  some 

Far  market-place  in  Fairydom. 

Yet  ever  through  the  chorus  stole 

The  sore-distressed. 

Faint  human  note  of  sad  unrest. 


We  woke  and  saw  the  morning  roll 

In  waves  of  gold 

Upon  the  mountains  green  and  bold; 

Birds  sang,  flowers  laughed,  the  grass  was  green ; 

The  sky  above 

Bent  over,  arching  earth  with  love; 

And,  riding  through  that  woodland  scene 

Of  rocks  and  rills, 

We  heard  the  cattle  in  the  hills. 


AUSTRALIA'S   VISION 

ALL  still !  and,  high  above,  the  sun 
In  cloudless,  golden  reign — 
A  mirage  in  the  quivering  west — 
A  horseman  on  the  plain! 

Silent,  with  hand  above  his  eyes. 
With  thoughts  undreamed,  unguessed, 

Like  some  bronze  shape  immovable. 
He  gazes  down  the  west. 

High  overhead  an  eagle  soars 

On  proud,  wide-spreading  wings; 

Crouching,  they  watch  with  stricken  eyes- 
The  furred  and  feathered  things. 

No  song,  no  sound !  but  arching  skies 

With  not  a  cloud  to  mar; 
O  horseman,  gazing  down  the  west, 

What  seest  thou  afar? 

Is  yon  a  mirage  dream,  indeed, 

Heat-born,  shape-thronged,  sublime? 

Or  but  a  mirror  of  the  things 
That  thou  shalt  know  in  time? 


176  AUSTRALIA'S    VISION 

What  comes  and  goes  in  yonder  haze  ? 

What  moving  things  are  these? 
Are  they  the  masts  of  battleships, 

Or  are  they  phantom  trees  ? 

Speak  thou,  whose  eyes  are  eagle-keen. 
Nor  dimmed  with  old  regrets ; 

Are  yonder  shapes  but  spectral  reeds, 
Or  are  they  bayonets  ? 

Look  well  into  the  Vision's  heart, 
O  horseman  on  the  plain ! 

Trust  nought  except  thine  own  true  eyes 
For  thine  the  loss  or  gain. 


WESTERN    CAMPS 

THREE  men  stood  with  their  glasses  lifted, 
Night  was  around  them  and  flaring  lamps 
"Here's  to  the  tried  and  true  and  sifted; 
Here's  to  the  flotsam  tossed  and  drifted; 
Here's  to  the  men  in  the  Outcast-camps, 

"Stars  that  fall  are  their  lot  for  ever; 

Lights  that  perish  and  stars  that  fall; 
Fighting  Fate  with  a  brave  heart  ever — 
Drifting  leaves  on  a  wayward  river — 

Men  for  ever  in  spite  of  all. 

"Here's  to  the  gallant  souls  defeated; 

Here's  to  the  strong  souls  under-trod, 
Hope-abandoned  and  mirage-cheated — 
And  yet,  by  right  of  their  failure,  seated 

Somewhere  close  to  the  feet  of  God. 


'Here's  to  the  heart  that  braves  undaunted 
Toil  and  trouble  for  home  and  wife; 

Here's  to  the  spirit  mocked  and  taunted ; 

Here's  to  the  memory,  sorrow-haunted; 
Here's  to  the  soul  grown  sick  of  life. 


178  WESTERN     CAMPS 

"Drink  to  the  man  at  the  camp-fire  sitting; 

Drink  to  his  mistress  of  long  ago ; 
Well — 'twere  well — and  the  time  were  fitting, 
If,  in  the  shades  of  the  firelight  flitting, 

She  should  come  with  her  eyes  aglow. 

"Drink  to  the  purpose,  iron,  oaken, 

Brought  to  nought  by  a  wanton's  guile; 
Drink  to  men  with  an  old  love-token 
Somewhere  close  to  their  brave  hearts  broken; 
Drink  to  the  martyred  souls  that  smile. 

"Drink  to  courage*  and  all  fine  daring —  , 

Spirit  trampling  the  flesh  beneath ; 
Drink  to  the  reckless  heart  uncaring; 
Drink  to  mates  at  the  last  pinch  sharing 
Their  little  all  in  the  face  of  death. 

"Last  toast  this  .  .  .  may  their  hearts  discover, 
On  every  track  that  the  outcast  tramps, 
A  friend  in  need,  and  at  need  a  lover. 
Green  grass  around  them  and  kind  stars  over, 
And  dreams  of  peace  in  their  Western  Camps." 


THE    SHADOW-THIRD 

THEY  met  in  the  old  conventional  way, 
And  married,  and  that  was  the  end 
Of  a  little  matter  that  touched  three  hearts — 
A  girl,  a  man,  and  his  friend. 

You  see,  when  he  saw  her  great  blue  eyes 

The  love  of  his  life  began, 
And — well — it  was  money  the  woman  craved, 

Not  flesh  and  blood  and  a  man. 

She  married,  for  money,  her  lover's  friend — 

And  thus  it  came  to  be 
That  the  man  went  out  of  life  one  night 

As  a  wind  goes  out  to  sea. 

She  did  not  smile  nor  sorrow,  they  say; 

She  showed  no  sign  of  care, 
But,  ever  since,  'twixt  the  wedded  twain 

There  stands  a  vacant  chair. 

And  when  they  stroll  through  the  street  at  times, 

Or  pace  some  garden  green. 
They  walk  so  spaced,  it  will  seem  to  you 

That  a  man  might  walk  between. 


THE    LAGOON 

WE  crept  through  reed-beds  wet  with  dew, 
The  sun  went  down  in  gold ; 
Hoisting  her  round  triumphantly, 
The  moon  showed  red  and  bold. 

The  unseen  sea  upon  our  right 

In  splendid  turmoil  broke; 
The  spindrift,  driving  ceaselessly, 

Was  vague  as  drifting  smoke. 

The  grass-tree  lances  spiked  our  flesh, 
The  brushed  ferns  wet  our  knees; 

The  she-oaks,  crooning  steadily. 
Stirred  in  the  late  salt  breeze. 

Thus,  pushing  on  with  velvet  tread 

Beneath  the  lavish  moon. 
We  saw,  spread  wide,  spread  gloriously, 

All  gold,  the  still  lagoon. 

And  on  its  breast  (a  picture  this 

Recalling  old-time  Dons 
And  Spanish  galleons  at  sea) 

A  squadron  of  black  swans. 


BY    THE    QUAY 

I    KNEW  a  ship  in  the  magical  time 
■■•      Of  painted  toy  and  nursery  rhyme 
That  quested  the  world  with  sails  unfurled, 
And  fluttered  her  flag  in  every  clime. 

Now,  once  a  year,  when  she  came  to  port, 
We  quitted  our  lessons,  forgot  our  sport. 
Deserted  schools  with  their  tiresome  rules, 
And  rushed  to  her  side  to  pay  her  court. 

We  turned  from  the  town  with  its  ceaseless  noise, 
Its  staring  windows  and  gilded  toys; 
For  she  was  a  queen  in  her  gold  and  green 
And  we  were  a  group  of  Quayside  boys. 

We  climbed  her  yards  at  the  risk  of  our  necks, 
Or  grouped  wide-eyed  on  her  snowy  decks 
While  her  sailors  told — what  time  they  rolled 
The  quid  in  their  cheeks — of  reefs  and  wrecks. 

Great  talk  they  made  of  the  China  Seas, 
The  cocoa-nut  isles  and  the  scented  breeze 
That  came  at  night  in  the  white  moonlight 
From  cinnamon  groves  and  camphor  trees. 


182  BY     THE     QUAY 

They  yarned  of  dolphins  and  mermaids  white 
And  Father  Neptune  abroad  at  night — 
Or,  short  and  tall,  yet  merry  men  all. 
They  danced  a  jig  in  the  sunset  light. 

But,  best  of  all,  when  the  night  came  down 
Were  the  songs  they  chorused  of  London  Town- 
Now  loud,  now  low — with  a  Yo-heave-O, 
And  brave,  blue  eyes  under  brows  of  brown. 

Now,  kissing  the  foam  when  the  good  ship  sped. 
And  poised  at  her  fore  with  lips  of  red 
And  a  robe  of  blue,  was — what  think  you? — 
Why,  only  a  wooden  figure-head. 

Just  that !  no  more ;  but  its  buoyant  poise 
Was  such  that  it  seemed  a  joy  of  joys. 
And  its  gold-tressed  head  and  its  lips  of  red 
Were  loved,  I  think,  by  the  Quayside  Boys. 

O !  the  vanished  things  are  the  things  that  most 
We  grieve  about — and  that  Quayside  host, 
Would  they  sigh  if  told  that  their  ship  of  old 
Is  a  hulk  for  coals  on  the  Spanish  Coast? 


THE    SCARLET    CLOAK 

/^  NE  may  go  a-many  leagues  a-questing  yon  and  hither ; 
^^     One  may  look  on  queens  and  kings,  and  think  the  vision 

bliss ; 
But  he  who  has  the  wholesome  heart,  as  lightsome  as  a  feather. 
Can  find  a  joy  in  everything,  no  matter  what  it  is. 

Golden  Miles  to  Burrawang,  when  the  morn  was  tender! — 
How  your  memory  rises  up,  how  it  haunts  and  smiles ! 

Back  again,  and  back  it  comes — all  the  early  splendour — 
All  your  length  made  beautiful,  O  you  Golden  Miles! 

You  that  wore  the  scarlet  cloak  in  the  pearly  morning. 

When  the  sun  came  up  the  East,  and  through  the  heavens 
strode 

Like  a  prince  of  great  account,  cloud  and  mist-wreath  scorning — 
What  was  in  the  heart  of  you,  waiting  by  the  road? 

Birds  of  all  the  bush  around  were  at  their  greeting  matins. 
Some  with  little  twitterings,  and  some  with  loud  acclaim; 

Cloth-of-gold  is  fine  wear,  and  fine  are  silks  and  satins — 
Finer  was  the  scarlet  cloak  that  wrapped  you  like  a  flame. 

You  that  wore  the  scarlet  cloak  in  the  early  morning. 

When  the  leaves  were  dancing  all,  and  the  dewdrops  glowed, 

Like  a  flower— a  flower  of  flowers,  the  dewy  way  adorning — 
Love  was  in  the  heart  of  you,  waiting  by  the  road ! 


THE    LONG,    LONE    ROAD 

YOU  that  had  the  soft  path 
And  the  Hghts,  brightly  glowing, 
Your  laugh  is  very  still,  and  your  hands 
are  very  chill, 
And  where  may  you  be  going? 

'Though  the  light  of  dawn  be  breaking, 

And  the  birds  of  morning  call — 
All  the  flowers  and  trees  awaking — 
'Tis  the  long  road  I'm  taking, 

The  long  road,  the  lone  road  that  has 
no  end  at  all." 

You  that  have  the  red  gold. 
And  the  gift  of  money-making, 

Since  your  journey  has  no  end,  sure  you'll 
need  a  heap  to  spend. 
And  how  much  will  you  be  taking? 

"O  there's  little  need  for  spending 
When  the  grey  shadows  fall. 
And  the  twilight  lies  unending 
On  the  way  I'll  soon  be  wending — 
The  long  road,  the  lone  road  that  has 
no  end  at  all." 


THE    LONG,    LONE    ROAD  185 

You  that  had  the  choice  wines, 

In  the  frail  cups  glowing — 
Is  there  any  need  to  ask  if  you'll  take 
a  golden  flask 

On  the  road  you'll  be  going? 

"When  I  walk,  a  spirit  shrinking. 
Where  the  grey  shadows  fall, 
There'll  be  little  need,  I'm  thinking, 
For  the  rich  delights  of  drinking 
On  the  long  road,  the  lone  road  that 
has  no  end  at  all !" 

You  that  sought  the  rich  man 

And  the  ladies — jewelled,  glowing — 

Since  the  way  is  far  to  wend,  sure  you'll 
need  a  true-heart  friend 
On  the  road  you'll  be  going? 

"Nay! — and  not  an  ear  shall  heed  me 
Though  I  call,  call,  call, 
When  the  beckoning  shadows  lead  me; 
And  no  prayer  of  heart  shall  speed  me 
On  the  long  road,  the  lone  road  that  has 
no  end  at  all !" 


186  THE  LONG,  LONE  ROAD 

You  that  had  the  hard  heart 
And  the  selfish  soul  uncaring, 

Is  there  any  deed  at  all  that  shall  let  a 
comfort  fall 
On  the  road  you'll  be  going? 

"Hush !  the  lights  of  day  have  ended, 
And  the  grey  shadows  fall, 
And,  by  no  sweet  thought  attended, 
I  must  wander,  unbefriended, 

Down  the  long  road,  the  lone  road  that 
has  no  end  at  all!" 


THE    THRESHOLD    STONE 

WHEN  I  went  to  live  in  the  little  house, 
That  stands  on  the  hilltop  alone, 
What  touched  me  most  of  all 
Was  neither  roof  nor  wall, 
But  the  smooth,  worn  face  of  its  old  threshold  stone. 


For  when  I  entered  that  little  house, 
With  its  four  rooms  cool  in  the  heat, 

And  its  windows  clean  and  bright. 

There  it  lay,  new-washed  and  white, 
With  its  tale  of  the  coming  and  the  going  of  feet. 

Then  I  lost  count  of  time  in  that  little  house. 
And  the  world  and  its  things  all  about. 

And  I  hearkened  there,  alone. 

To  the  footfalls  on  that  stone. 
Of  the  young  coming  in  and  the  old  going  out. 

And  the  folk  that  had  dwelt  in  that  little  house, 
They  were  mute,  spectre-mute,  at  my  side — 

The  young  man,  strong  and  bold. 

And  the  grey  man,  wise  and  old. 
And  the  little,  pinched  woman  and  the  new-made  bride. 


188  THE    THRESHOLD     STONE 

Oh,  often  in  haste  to  that  little  house 
Came  love  in  the  night-time  alone, 

And  dallied  there  a  while. 

With  a  little,  wistful  smile. 
And  with  feather-weight  feet  on  the  old  threshold  stone. 

And  men  hurried  home  to  that  little  house 
When  the  round  of  the  daytime  was  o'er 

With  its  worry,  heat  and  noise, 

And  kissed  their  girls  and  boys. 
And  the  patient  little  mothers  that  waited  at  the  door. 

Though  I  dwell  now  no  more  in  that  little  house 
That  stands  on  the  hilltop  alone. 

Yet  this  I  got  from  it — 

This  human  story  writ 
On  the  smooth,  worn  face  of  its  old  threshold  stone. 

Though  they  take  stone  from  stone  in  that  little  house. 
Making  litter  of  all  it  has  been. 

Yet  they  shall  not  destroy 

All  the  grief,  all  the  joy, 
All  the  youth,  all  the  love  that  its  threshold  has  seen. 


DOING    NOTHING 

WITH  the  sorrow  on  me 
Neighbours  come  and  go — 
Think  me  vain  and  foolish 
Nursing  up  my  woe. 

With  the  grief-blade  in  me 
Keen  and  chill  as  steel — 

Can  I  laugh  like  others, 
Feel  the  joy  they  feel? 

Since  he  died  and  left  me 
Things  don't  matter  much, 

Life,  that  danced  and  capered, 
Limps  upon  a  crutch. 

Night  and  day  I  ponder. 
Drawing  weary  breath — 

Since  to  love  we're  moulded. 
Why  should  there  be  death? 

Night  and  day  I'm  asking 
Him  Who  dwells  above — 

Since  to  death  we're  going, 
Why  should  there  be  love? 


190  DOING     NOTHING 

When  he  kissed  and  left  me, 
Oh,  he  looked  so  brave! — 

God  be  with  him  sleeping 
In  his  far-off  grave! 

What  are  dress  and  jewels. 
What  are  meat  and  bread 

To  a  lonely  woman 
Grieving  for  her  dead? 

Wan  I  am  with  weeping. 
Tired  of  heart  I  sink — 

Doing  nothing  .  .  .  only 
Trying  not  to  think  ^ 


HOMEWARD    GOING 

GRAY  smoke  in  the  green  leaves, 
Someone  homeward  going, 
No  sound  in  the  lone  hills  .  :  . 
Only  cattle  lowing. 

Still  trees  and  a  hushed  world, 
Leaf  and  limb  unshaken, 

No  wind  in  the  tall  grass, 
Creeksides  bird-forsaken. 

Pale,  pale  and  with  mute  lips 

One  in  shadow  lying — 
Near  gone  from  the  green  world, 

Sorrow  nigh  him  sighing. 

Day's  strife  and  a  life's  strife 

Each  in  quiet  ending; 
Life's  light  and  the  dark  of  death 

Softly  interblending. 

One  star  on  a  far  ridge. 

Home  the  Homeward  going, 

No  sound  on  the  lone  hills  .  .  . 
Only  cattle  lowing. 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  ANZAC 

THE  form  that  was  mine  was  brown  and  hard, 
And  thewed  and  muscled,  and  tall  and  straight ; 
And  often  it  rode  from  the  station  yard, 

And  often  it  passed  through  the  stockyard  gate; 
And  often  it  paused  on  the  grey  skyline 
'Twixt  mulga  and  mallee  or  gum  and  pine. 

There  was  never  a  task  that  it  would  not  do ; 

There  was  never  a  labour  it  left  undone; 
But  ever  and  always  it  battled  through, 

And  took  the  rest  that  its  toil  had  won, 
And  slept  the  sleep  of  the  weary-limbed 
Till  the  stars  grew  pale  and  the  planets  dimmed. 

The  form  that  was  mine  is  mine  no  more. 

For  low  it  lies  in  a  soldier's  grave 
By  an  alien  sea  on  an  alien  shore; 

And  over  its  sleep  no  wattles  wave, 
And  stars  unseen  on  their  journey  creep; 
But  it  wakes  no  more  from  its  dreamless  sleep. 

O  Mother  of  mine,  what  is  is  best! 

And  our  graves  are  dug  at  the  hour  of  birth ; 
And  the  form  that  slept  on  your  shielding  breast 

Sleeps  soundly  here  in  the  mothering  earth. 
And  dust  to  dust !    When  our  part  is  played. 
Does  it  matter  much  where  the  change  is  made  ? 


THE     SOUL     OF    THE     ANZAC  193 

O  Heart  that  was  mine,  you  were  brave  and  strong — 

How  strong,  how  brave,  let  another  tell! 
You  loved  the  lilt  of  the  bushman's  song. 

And  loved  the  land  that  he  loved  so  well. 
And  loved — ah,  well ! — as  well  she  knew. 
The  sweet,  white  girl  who  was  all  to  you. 

O  Heart  of  mine,  though  your  love  was  great. 

Yet  a  greater  than  Love  is  lord  of  man ; 
The  rose-path  wound  to  the  garden  gate. 

And  there  the  track  to  The  Peaks  began ; 
And  though  storm  threatened  and  skies  grew  black. 
You  dared  the  menace  and  took  the  track. 

O  Heart,  when  the  cliffs  were  hard  to  climb. 
How  sweet  was  home,  and  her  eyes  how  sweet! 

How  sweet  the  moments  when  Love  kept  time, 
And  you  and  her  heart  gave  beat  for  beat, 

And  the  waters  sang,  and  the  sun-rays  glanced. 

And  the  flowers  laughed  out,  and  the  saplings  danced. 

Yet  better,  O  Heart,  to  do  as  you  did 

Than  to  lie  on  her  breast,  as  your  love-gift  lies ; 

For  how  can  Love  prosper  when  Honour  lies  hid. 
Ashamed  to  look  Love  fair  and  square  in  the  eyes? 

Though  grave-mould  be  round  you,  grey  grasses  above, 

You  live,  and  shall  live,  evermore  in  her  love! 


194  THE  SOUL  OF  THE  ANZAC 

O  Man  that  I  was,  you  were  foe  to  Death ; 

For  Life  was  fair  to  you — wonderful,  rare; 
You  had  your  being  and  drew  your  breath 

In  ample  spaces  of  earth  and  air ; 
While  ever  and  always,  by  night  and  day, 
Bright  Promise  pointed  the  Golden  Way. 

And  yet  'twas  your  choice  to  be  this  thing — 

A  young  man  dead  on  an  alien  shore. 
Where  the  immemorial  surges  sing 
•  As  once  they  sang  in  the  days  of  yore, 

When  Greek  and  Trojan  matched  their  might 
And  Troy  shone  down  upon  the  fight. 

O  Man  that  I  was,  well  done!    Well  done! 

You  chose  the  nobler,  the  better  part; 
Though  a  mother  weep  for  her  soldier  son, 

And  a  fair,  sweet  girl  be  sad  at  heart, 
Yet  the  soul  of  your  country  glows  with  pride 
At  the  deed  you  did  and  the  death  you  died ! 


W.  C.  Penfold  &  Co.  I,td.  Printers,  88  Pitt  Street,  Sydney 


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